Free Mexican Ghost Tales of the Southwest by Alfred Ávila Page B

forest path was lush with green plants and occasional flowers. A humming voice could be heard in the humid air. It was the voice of a woodcutter. The tune was an ancient one, passed down by the local Indians. Nobody remembered the words, only the tune. The old woodcutter hummed as he walked along the forest path with a load of tree branches pressing down heavily on his bent back.
    â€œI want a cup of cold water,” he suddenly said to himself out loud.
    It had been a hard day for him. He was headed back to the village to sell his firewood. He was a simple man, a little awkward in manner and very poor. He came up on the hill and he could see the village in a distant clearing below. There was still a river to cross. The river would be up above his knees. It was getting late, and he would have to cross the river in the darkness.
    He stopped to rest and sat down to watch the ants of the forest. They moved in a narrow line, darting and scurrying in one direction or the other. The small creatures fascinated him. In his simple mind, he identified with them. They were alwaysworking, with no time to rest.
    â€œPoor small creatures,” he thought to himself. “They are probably the souls of evil people who died and are reborn as ants to work until the end of this world. They have their tunnels that go down into the innards of the earth, to the center of Hell where the Devil works them endlessly.”
    The sun was setting fast. The long shadows of the trees told him that he must hurry or he would be walking the path home in the dark. He trudged steadily along the path with his heavy load of wood. He could hear the crickets starting to chirp here and there in the creeping darkness as he stumbled on the wet rocks of the riverbank. He tried to move carefully among the rocks as he stepped toward the river and into the slow swirling waters.
    It was a wide river, and it felt good as the water cooled his tired legs. Suddenly, a long mournful crying sound came drifting across the waters. He stopped to listen for the direction of the sound, but he could only hear the soft swirling of the river past his legs. He stood quietly looking at the silhouette of the tall trees in the forest, but no sound came from there.
    An instinct born of centuries of Indian survival told his brain, “Awaken! Something is wrong.” But his simple mind only dulled his instinct. He was weary of his heavy load, wishing only to get back to his peaceful home and rest.
    Out of the distant darkness came another mournful cry and a long howling scream. He lifted his head quickly and listened. He thought to himself, “It’s probably a puma hunting for its evening meal.”
    He was only halfway across the river when he saw the phantom coming over the water in his direction. It was a huge woman. He marveled at the ghost, this huge apparition moved, floating above the river waters. Her loud mournful screams made the Indian feel sorry for the woman. She looked so lonely and sad. He stood there staring and staring at her approaching form.
    He felt no fear of the ghost. His simple mind could not comprehend that he was in mortal danger. He looked at her as if she were an angel from beyond. His dulled senses had not warned him that this ghost was the infamous La Llorona, the crying woman, who roams the rivers at night looking for her children, the little ones she killed by throwing them into a river and drowning them. She was cursed by the gods to find no peace until the end of the world. Whatever foolish mortal met her near the river ran the risk of dying gruesomely.
    Here in the middle of the river she found a simple Indian, too humble to comprehend his foolish fate. The woodcutter looked up at the huge ghost. She was towering high above his head like a monster ready to devour its prey. But what fascinated the Indian was the beauty of her face.
    â€œPerhaps she is an ancient Indian princess looking for the portal to the next world. That’s why she