A Night In El Campo

Iris is finally here…its past midnight and she lies through her teeth.

“Not like this and not here, please!?” Maggie begs Iris as she direly paces across the restroom wishing she had ended things sooner.  

“C’mon babe. So I had a few drinks, big deal! ITS NOT LIKE I WENT HOME WITH THEM OR ANYTHING”

The cold tile under her bare feet kissed with steam from the hot bath awakens her senses. The sudden realization that nothing had changed sunk Maggie’s heart down and into the drain where she had hoped to rekindle whatever spark was left between them. Iris came forward, arms flailed open with remorse. A sudden chill ran up Maggie’s spine as the lingering notes of Flor de Sangre and mezcal exuded from Iris’ dew-dropped lips.

She isn’t even trying to hide it anymore. Maggie thought to herself

At least she had the courtesy to reapply her lipstick 

She put her leggings on inside out again though, I guess she was in a hurry after all

She’s lucky she didn’t cause another accident! 

Or worse…

“I can smell you from here. And that’s not your perfume.”

Dejected, Iris sharply looks away, drops her arms to her side and shakes her head in mortifying defeat. “I’m sorry. I messed up… I’m sorry…”. Without turning back, Iris runs to the bath grabbing the flowers their host had placed on the vanity as a “welcome”. There was still water draining but enough to salvage a decent bath for one pathetic attempt at restitution. She rips the petals, fist by fist and scatters them into the clawfoot tub, the water still steaming, replenishing with her haste attempts to stop the inevitable. 

Iris finally looks to Maggie, eyes red and glossy from the night’s misdeeds, and calls to her.  

“Please?”  Iris gestures toward Maggie, hand wet from testing the rising bathwater. “Please join me” she asks her one last time. 

Maggie watches repugnantly as she counts each lie dripping from Iris’ fingertips, the tiles and her heart now forever stained with this memory. She’s had enough of the bullshit. She looks past the tub and out the window onto moon above. “I need air.”

Maggie marches out of the house and closes the door behind her. She rests her back against the wrought-iron gate leading her out into the finca. The stars above her are immense and the sky looks infinite, a darkness stretching far beyond her eyes could see. I forgot skies could look like this, she thought. She looks up longingly into the night and in one deep breath, for that split second, everything was still. 

It’s been years since they came to visit Maggie’s abuelita. She completely forgot what life was like here, without the noise of the city as the soundtrack of her life. The sound of her tears and broken heartbeats are all she could hear upon breathing the country air. Deafening silence took on a new meaning here. A high pitched ringing in her ears overcame the sound of her breath with eye-opening force. She couldn’t unsee it anymore. There was nothing to distract her from the crumbling reality that was her marriage. Nothing to silence the drunken lullaby her wife boisterously sang as she bathed in lies and transgressions. The sound of her rage growing inside her with a burning desire to just run. 

The eerie silence of the night is broken by the crackle of leña burning nearby. Her burgeoning rage deadened by the smoke in the air billowing from the chimenea across the way. From the door, the vibrant speck that is Abuelita can be seen sitting by the stables, drinking her evening tea and staring into the fire’s flickering belly.   

Still in her apron, abuelita always looks ready to bake you one of her famous pan dulce or ready to clean up after you at the drop of a hat. Abuelita has always been the one to hold our pain and release it all in one immaculate hug and prayer to the winds.

“Qué pasa mi niña, porque tan triste? Come here.” Beckons abuelita. 

“Estoy harta abuelita! I’M DONE!” Maggie screams, “I can’t do this anymore, pretend like everything is fine. She doesn’t even hide it anymore. I mean, just tonight she came…ugh. Forget it. I just wish this would fucking end.”

Abuelita spreads her arms wide inviting Maggie into her warm embrace, “Ven, deja darte un abrazo”.  Maggie collapses into abuelita’s arms, her tears streaming wildly. Abuelita holds her tight, rocking her back and forth until she realizes she couldn’t be anywhere safer right now. Maggie sits beside abuelita, falling onto the rattan sofa where abuela y los rancheros end their workday. She rests her worried head upon abuelita’s shoulder and exhales audibly into the emblazoned air. 

“Whats wrong my love? Dímelo todo. Quieres que te trenze el pelo?” Abuelita gently asks. 

Maggie sniffles and breaks a smile, “You always said that braiding hair was a way to pray… I never forgot that.” She looks around for something to sit on, she doesn’t want abuelita to have to move from her rattan nest. Maggie eyes a dusty dog bed against the fence and drags it towards them, placing it on the floor between abuelita’s feet and the chiminea. She nestles herself in front of abuelita’s legs, resting her back against the wool blanket draped over abuela’s strong, ancient legs. The night breeze begins to pickup and she shudders at its chill touch. Her body recoils in quiet discomfort, not expecting the sudden freeze. She feels her shoulders drop the moment those magical hands brushed through her tangled curls. 

“I grew up so ashamed of being from el campo, abuela. I remember how miserable school was when I moved to the city with mami and tata. Never mind the hell I went through when I moved to the US… you were always there, through every scraped knee, fractured bone and heartbreak. I missed how you’d braid my hair and tell me stories, sing me songs…” Maggie looks into the chiminea, her head tilted as abuelita begins to part her hair into sections. Abuelita begins braiding Maggie’s hair with a gentle hum and surprising speed despite her curled, gnarly hands. “You always made everything better”.

The night winds began to quicken through the trees, the cornfields rustling in the darkness with great fury. A deep rumbling emerges from beneath them, Maggie startled with disbelief jumps from the mattress, pulling her hair out of abuelas hands in her panic.  

“Calmense. Its just the winds” abuelita said nonchalantly to her stock, wiping her hands of the strands plucked from her granddaughters scalp. In the distance, the neighbors horses can also be heard in an uproar at the howl of the evening winds. “Los caballos get scared when the wind gets too strong. They sound like they’re screaming for their lives. I used to think someone was hurting them when everyone’s asleep. Pero no. they’re just a bunch of miedosos.” Coyotes roam el campo in search of dinner. They’ve been known to sneak off with chickens, goats but never a horse. Abuelita wasn’t one to take that chance, her horses were all she had left after abuelito passed. 

“Did your mami ever tell you about La Siguanaba?” She asks, taking her glance back from the stables and onto Maggie’s hair. 

Maggie shakes her head no as she feels the tug of abuelitas hand gathering strands with tenacity and ease. “Ouch! Not too tight por favor!” she yelps

“Bueno pues,” abuelita recounts, “La Siguanaba was a beautiful woman who met her fate at the hands of nefarious men. Most who tell the story will say that she was unfaithful, dirty, deserving of her fate. That her disloyalty and neglect lead to the curse plaguing our town for centuries. How wrong they all are. You see, La Siguanaba does not hunt por gusto, no mi niña. She takes vengeance. A powerful Umetunal like her could not be so easily silenced, even after her death.

“A what?” 

“Umetunal. They’re a sacred person from our land, rare and powerful in their beauty and heart”  Abuela pauses, her hands mid twist and stuck in her contemplative grasp. “Espera…Como se dice…ahh si! Cuir!” Queer, she exclaimed pulling Maggie’s hair upward as she gleefully remembered the word to describe La Siguanaba’s imposed affliction. 

“The ancestors called them Umetunal pero that did not speak fully of their greatness” abuelita explained. The men in the town were enamored by her incredible beauty, they craved her power yet felt great shame for their lustful thoughts. “The men knew her to be of this blessed nature y abusaron de ella in unspeakable ways. Her angered spirit is fueled by the violence of men onto others, of machismo incarnate. 

It’s said that she roams the town luring hombres infieles y valientes with a song no man has ever denied or lived to hear again. She coaxes them with an illusion of unsurpassed beauty but by the time they see her true face, it’s already too late. Her siren call draws them away from sensibility and towards the lustful promise of her deadly embrace. For them, that song was the final thing they hear before their inevitable demise. Esa cara de caballo muerto locks you in your fear, unable to escape! Unable to look away from the truth…that this is the end.”

“How do you know she’s singing if no one’s ever survived after hearing it?” Maggie poignantly asked. 

“Some say it’s a familiar favorite, changing for each poor bastard she traps. Others says she coos you with the voice of your last fling. To trick you. Y ya tu sabes como son. They can’t resist!” Abuelita continues dutifully braiding, laughing over the folly of the unfaithful. 

Maggie breaks her eyes away from the fire and towards the house. A glint of hope sparked across her eyes when for one moment, things were good again. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, she thought. 

Do you remember Don Octavio?” Abuelita asked, bringing Maggie’s attention back to the flames. “Of course you don’t, you were only an esquintle when you last saw him. He fell into La Siguanaba’s trap one night after a drunken episode. Don Octavio left his wife bedridden that night from his beatings and ran into the corn fields in an intoxicated rage. Had I not been late to deliver their tea and pancito, Diosguarde! When I found her, she could barely move, her legs broken from where he bashed her knees in. She swore through her swollen lips that this would be the last time. And though the blood in her mouth made it impossible to understand her words, I heard her loud and clear. 

The next morning, tu abuelito and a few men from la hacienda went in search for Don Octavio. They found him about 3 kilometers from the fields, on the banks of rio Kwate with his pants off and a broken bottle of aguardiente where his heart used to be. Blood and dark hair protruded from the ground where his genitals had been trampled into a pulp. It was impossible to distinguish his flesh from the muck. Tu abuelito saw it with his own eyes…”

Abuelita stares into the chiminea, its vibrant flames dancing in the terra cotta entrapment glowing under its own power and the moonlight. The way her eyes peer into the fire reflects each moment of dread repeated to her by abuelito. You’d swear she was there witnessing it herself. 

“His face was twisted, like whatever came towards him was more frightening than death. If he tried to scream, I don’t think any of us could’ve heard it over the high winds. Don Octavio…en paz descanse.” Abuelita hastily makes the holy trinity across her chest, kissing her calloused fingers as she invites the holy ghost into the moment. 

There was always a sorrowful heartache that overcame Maggie during her visits. After what happened to abuelito, finding Don Octavio that way, everything changed. The family was of course never the same and neither was the town. It was almost as though the goodness of el pueblo disappeared the night he did. It’s true, terror did strike the town and has been for centuries. But this was a different suffering of spirit altogether. 

“Still,” abuelita dourly continues, “we all believed he had it coming. Pero it wasn’t until his esposa finally believed it too that vengeance finally came.”

Nothing could assuage the fear that grew steadily inside Maggie’s heart. She remembers the first time she walked in on Iris and the rage that flushed her body at the sight of them. Their first apartment together. Iris’s legs wrapped around the UPS guy’s waist, his brown socks being the only part of his uniform still on. What can brown do for you… she whispers to herself as she watches the burning logs collapse under the weight of their ashes. 

A gust of the wind cut between them and the chiminea, smoke billowing upwards and embers flying onto Maggie’s mattress. She brings her legs closer, wiping cinder and ash off her sweatpants. Annoyed at abuela’s story, she forces her eyes to stare into the fire and not across the way. Not into the window where her wife’s silhouette taunted her with the truth. 

“Ay abuela, I can’t listen to these stories right now! Besides, how can anyone rest in peace after such a terrible death?” cried Maggie. 

“Do you believe things happen for a reason, mi niña?” Abuelita asks 

Maggie shudders at the chill breeze, the scent of Iris and tonight’s misadventure trailing in the air. She winces at the sharp sting of Flor de Sangre in her nostrils, that tantalizing perfume giving away their secrets. Although we always knew it wasn’t a secret. She shrugs her shoulders, settles back into abuelita’s care and wipes her tears. “I don’t know what I believe anymore, abuela”. 

“La Siguanaba only brings forth what we know is long overdue. Whether we want it or not, it is ultimately her who decides. But not without your blessing of course.” Abuelita takes Maggie’s head between her firm, wrinkled hands and gently directs her to turn the other way. “It’s time for the other side mija”. 

Confused, Maggie exclaims, “Wait… You’re saying that I have to actually WANT her to avenge me? Heh, I would never…I couldn’t…”

“Perhaps you may not have to say it. The heart speaks louder than the voice. Even after all this time, we find our way towards the darkness we tried to leave behind”. Abuelita says in her frustrating, cryptic way. 

“I can’t anymore with this abuelita. I’m going to bed.”

Maggie lays in quiet contemplation, Iris in the next room, still washing away her guilt. She hears abuelitas voice in her head, quietly humming a gentle tune. Maggie remembers the song from long ago, abuelito used to sing it to her too. As she melts into the softness of her bed, the cold empty side where Iris is supposed to lay brings her to tears. Her weeping grows into lamentable wails, longing for the love that’s just beyond her reach. Except, it isn’t real and it isn’t love. Not anymore. “She’s just in the next room…”

Iris quietly emerges from the bathroom, water and bubbles dripping down her body, rose petals and sage sticking to her skin. She slowly walks towards the bed where Maggie lays, back facing the wall, unaware of the staggering presence approaching. The scent of Flor de Sangre still permeating the air, forcing Maggie’s tired eyes to open- she’s not alone in the room anymore and she can’t move.

Suddenly, she feels the cold, wet weight of Iris hands on her legs, slowly reaching further, higher up her thigh. Maggie cringes in horror, begging Iris to stop, the feel of her damp body suffocating Maggie’s senses. “Please, not like this…not here”. She tries to scream but only faint whispers of despair and hot breath exit her throat. The words HELP slowly crawling out of her mouth, each letter clawing its way out, clutching for safety. She’s frozen, caught under the weight of Iris and her lies, trapped in her vicious grasp again. She wants to scream but Iris forces her down by the throat, her infernal grip squeezing whatever life Maggie had left in her. 

“Iris…. PLEASE!” 

Maggie fights with every once of strength she has left. Her arms pushing to break through Iris’s grasp. She looks around her and the room begins to fade into obscurity, melding with colors of autumn skies and sunsets. Iris’s face begins to melt, her skin slowly peeling down her chin, dripping with bathwater and blood. Her cheekbones break apart, splitting her skull open like a rotting coconut. Her fractured bones suspended overhead spinning in a flurry of fire and smoke, fusing with the darkness consuming her. She wasn’t Iris anymore and whatever she was now, it didn’t want to let Maggie go.

“No puede ser, no puede ser…” she sobbed

The flesh of what was once her wife’s face now laid strewn about their bedroom. Horse hooves and bloody clumps of hair ravaged the carpet and walls. She’s unsure if this is a fever dream or if the tepid pool of sweat gluing her to the mattress was in fact the blood of the severed horse head placed between her legs, eyes glazed over from the shock of being torn from its neck. Its pale, maggot filled tongue spilling onto her thighs. She feels the scuttle of the larvae against her skin as she writhes herself free of their pestilent imposition. Maggie jumps off the bed, blood soaked bedsheet sticking to her ass as she struggles to peel off the crimson filth manifesting before her crying eyes. Her frantic shrieks for help muted by the violent wail of La Siguanaba’s laugh. 

“No…please”

“Margarita, despierta!” abuelita shouted. With a jolt of panic and surprise, Maggie awakens to abuelita at her side, her braids complete. “Its okay mi niña, its okay. Era solo un sueño. Just a bad dream. You used to fall asleep like this when you were little too…”

“I heard her abuelita! La Siguanaba. I SAW her! And Iris…”, Maggie quickly turns towards the house, the lights still on and nothing out of the ordinary. 

“Calmada Maggie. Breathe.” abuelita said with a smile.

Abuelita sips her tea as Maggie runs her fingers across her freshly laid braids. “Gracias abuelita”she says as she hugs her in gratitude. She dusts herself off and stretches her arms high into the sky, the wind rushing across her body as she revels in the comfort of being back home. She turns to look at the casa and notices the light from the bathroom had gone out.

Abuelita stared into the chiminea, the embers now the only source of light after the moon hid behind the clouds. “Ademas mi nina, it isn’t you who needs to worry about La Siguanaba anyway.”  The stillness in the air amplified the sinking sound of Maggie’s heart hitting the pit of her stomach. 

Startled, Maggie grabs the lantern and runs back to the house. Abuelita waves her off and reclines into the rattan sofa, sips her tea, taking her gaze to the sky. A gentle hum pressed between her transcendental lips. Her prayer to the wind. 

Maggie cautiously walks upstairs, her hands gripping the railing as she takes each hurried step.

She rushes past the bed and to the bathroom where Iris waits in silence. She didn’t notice when Iris stopped singing, her hands shaking at the stunned silence beyond the bathroom door. She stands before the entrance, feels the warmth from inside seeping out. The wetness pooling at her feet drew her eyes down to the warm flood of bathwater and flower petals. Shakily, she pushes the door open. “Iris?” She cried through sobbing, scared breaths.

She closes her eyes, “Iris?” she snivels, walking closer towards the clawfoot tub where Iris lay in wait. Her beautiful body laying still in the dark, hands gripping the porcelain edges of the tub, water flowing through her fingertips. A smile runs across Maggie’s face as she runs towards Iris through tears and surrender.  She places her hand upon her shoulder, turns around to embrace her, falling upon her knees. Everything felt perfect and in a blink of an eye, the darkness of the night was broken by the moonlight. It was then that Maggie saw Iris with true clarity, no longer the dreaded fantasy she convinced herself of. Maggie quickly pulls away from Iris, repulsed by the brackish water and putrid stench steaming from the bath. She looks upon Iris, her eyes bulging outward in bloodshot dismay, mouth twisted wide open as though the ferocity of her scream stretched the limits of her face’s skin. Scared to death of whatever came towards her, whatever let itself in.  

Maggie, trembling in rabid horror let a blood curdling roar breaking through the walls and onto the cornfields. The horses galumphed skittishly in their stables, whinnying in freight of the nocturnal howls. The coyotes cried back in a cacophony of delight at potential, fresh prey. El campo surrendered to the winds and a spark of chaos was felt in the air. Maggies screams, lost in the music of the night. 

About the Author

Artwork by Ozi Magaña

FEODOME was born OZI and was raised in the Bay Area of California. FEO(ugly) DOME(head) began his love for various art forms at a young age, ranging from comics to cathedrals.  This instigated his unrelenting pursuit of being an artist. With the support and love from his friends, and family, he continues to achieve his childhood dream of creating a universe of his own. Super heroes, movies, burritos, and pugs are some of the most important sources of inspiration. Mesoamerican aesthetics is another huge influence and an important way for the artist to connect to his cultural history. The artist has been interested in combining facets of his own personal history, into the creation of a world as he would like to see: full of heroines and heroes. The work shown is autobiographical.  It is about his friends, his loves, his experiences, his emotions, his struggles, and, most of all, his never ending quest to make cool shit.