Mexican Ghost Tales of the Southwest Page 3

  The people moved quickly out of the shack and headed up the muddy path to the hills. The swift and churning floodwaters reached the old house where the funeral was held, shattering it. By the brilliant flashes of lightning, some of the villagers could see the casket twisting downstream among the wreckage of the house. Tears welled in their eyes as they watched the casket with the old man float away. There was nothing they could do. They stood there like dead stumps on the darkened hillside. The coffin was never to be seen again.

  It rained for three more days. When the sun finally came out, the villagers no longer visited the place by the river where the shack used to be. It was bad luck because the Goat Devil had been there.

  Today, if one listens carefully in the twilight shade of the trees by the riverbank, one might hear the old man croak from his mossy coffin, “I’m here! I’m here!”

  “He’s here! He’s here!” chirp the small beeper frogs in response.

  THE DEAD MAN’S SHOES

  THE DEAD MAN’S SHOES

  Deep in the interior of Chihuahua, there is the quiet town of Parral, located in a small valley surrounded by soft rolling hills. In the orange glow of the evening sky, the sun was slowly sinking. It had been a long hot day for Rengo. Because he walked with a slight limp, he had been nicknamed Rengo, or Cripple, by the townspeople. Nobody knew his real name. He was a quiet hardworking man who traveled daily to the marketplace to sell his pottery.

  His feet felt very heavy as he headed home this particular day. Because he was tired and worn out as he walked beside the town cemetery, he decided to take a shortcut through it.

  A peaceful mysterious gloom permeated the area. The long shadows of the tombstones were beginning to fall across the path. They looked like guardians for the deceased standing tall and proud facing the last gleaming rays of the sun; the guardians of the graves, protecting those who had gone recently or long before.

  Rengo was too tired to be bothered by his surroundings. All he could think about was getting home to a warm meal and his pulque, the treasured liquor that quenched his thirsty soul, a magic elixir that kept his worn-out body going.

  Daydreaming, Rengo stumbled off the path and lost his footing, falling sideways with his heavy load. He hit the ground with a thump, sending clouds of dust in every direction.

  “Ay, Chihuahua!” he cried out as he rolled down a small embankment. Stretched out in the dust, waiting to regain his senses, Rengo saw that his bundle of pottery had rolled in front of him. He knew that some of the pottery must have broken.

  “What bad luck!” he muttered while he waited for the cloud of dust to settle.

  He had raised himself up, walked over to his bundle of pottery, and started to drag it over the embankment when, suddenly, he spotted a pair of dusty shoes at the foot of a grave. He let go of his bundle and went to inspect the shoes. A smile crossed his face.

  “Almost like new,” Rengo said out loud in his happiness, swatting the shoes one against the other to dust them off. Then he put the shoes down and started to slap the dust from his clothes.

  It was starting to get dark. He quickly picked up the shoes and placed them inside his pottery bundle, tied it up securely, placed it on his back, and headed up the embankment to the path with his limping walk.

  “Oh, what luck to find a pair of shoes in such an unusual place,” he said. He was happy as he limped along the path talking to himself.

  “But I’ll have to separate the broken pottery from the good when I get home. Such bad luck to have fallen down and dropped my pottery. There will be less to sell tomorrow.” His mind dwelled on the material things in life, for every cent he made helped him in his daily struggle to live. His was a hand-to-mouth existence.

  His stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry! I have to get home!”

  Suddenly, he thought he heard a voice behind him in the distance. “Please, sir, my shoes. My feet are cold.”

  He turned and looked around. There was no one. He looked at the bushes and trees alongside the path, but he saw no one in the darkness. Was it a voice? Maybe it was just his rumbling stomach.

  Onward he went at a quicker pace. He would hurry home to satisfy his growing hunger. As he reached the road at the edge of the cemetery, he once again thought he heard a voice. “Sir, sir! My shoes, my shoes!”

  Rengo did not bother to look back. Instead, he quickly headed toward the crossroad that would take him home. “What a long, long day this has been!” he told himself as he limped down the dusty road, leaving the cemetery far behind him.

  When he arrived home, Rengo set down his load of pottery on the ground and headed for the water pump. He took his hat off and pumped water into a bucket. He bent over, got some water into his cupped hands, and washed his hands, face and neck to get all the dust off.

  He walked into his home and placed the shoes he had just found on the mantle. Then he went to the kitchen, got his pot of beans and his corn tortillas, and walked over to the glowing fire. He put his bean pot on it and warmed his tortillas. Soon the comforting aroma of beans and corn filled the air. He peeled a couple of garlic cloves and mashed them with dried red peppers in his stone metate. He then threw in a small tomatillo for good measure, ground that up in the mixture, and added a little water to make a watery sauce. He poured the chili mash into a small dish and set it aside. He poured his beans into a bowl and sat down to enjoy his meal.

  “What a delicious meal!” he almost yelled. He ripped his corn tortillas into little scoops, filled them with beans and chili as he greedily munched, and swallowed everything with a swig of pulque.

  “I feel so good!” Rengo said, finishing his meal and quietly beginning to go over the things that had happened to him that day.

  “La Llorona, the Wailing Woman, is dancing for me tonight,” Rengo observed about the dancing shadows cast onto the adobe walls of his house by the fire. Then, returning to his original thoughts, he commented, “The day was not wasted after all. Some of the pottery is broken, but I also found a good pair of shoes I can sell.”

  A sound interrupted his thoughts. It sounded like a voice somewhere outside the house. “Sir, my shoes, please,” the voice seemed to be saying.

  Rengo’s eyes opened wide. He stood up with a jolt. What was that sound?

  “It was probably the wind blowing outside,” Rengo reassured himself. “I’m tired and I keep thinking that I hear voices. It’s just my tired mind and my tired body,” he told himself again.

  Rengo headed for the adobe stairs that led up to his bedroom, and as he passed by the mantle, he grabbed the shoes.

  “Tomorrow is another day,” he told himself, going slowly up the stairs.

  Rengo was so tired that he had to struggle to make it up the ten steps to his bedroom upstairs. He hobbled into his room, sat on his bed, and placed the shoes on a small table next to the bed. He took off his old leather sandals and lay down, too weary to light his votive candle. He pulled the covers over his tired body wondering what type of day tomorrow would be.

  Rengo was a poor Indian. His treasure was his soul rather than his material possessions. His bed was nothing but an old wooden frame with a mat and a thin mattress over it and his covers an old blanket and a serape.

  As he lay in his bed listening to the wind blowing across the window, Rengo thought he heard a funny noise.

  “WOOOO! My shoes … WOOOO! My shoes … WOO WOOOO!” the sound seemed to be saying.

  But Rengo didn’t pay much attention. He was too tired. The lids closed over his eyes and he drifted into a merciful sleep, a temporary escape from the pains and sufferings of this world.

  A door creaked open downstairs, and a huge shadow came into the house and dragged itself toward the stairs. The dark figure stopped at the bottom of the stairwell, looking upward. There it stood, staring. Finally, it dragged one leg up the first step, still looking upward. Then it dragged itself up to the second step.

  “Thief, where are my shoes?” the dark shadow said moaning softly.

 
The shadow climbed to the third step slowly, ever so slowly. All was quiet except for the snoring of the sleeping man upstairs.

  It struggled up to the fourth step. Then to the fifth.

  The eyes of the huge ghostly figure were glowing red in the dark. It was mad, very mad. Rengo had stolen its shoes. There was no excuse for stealing anyone’s shoes.

  The monstrous figure crept up to the sixth step, moaning softly. It stopped and looked upward as if it were expecting someone to appear at the top of the steps.

  “Where are my sho-o-o-es?” it moaned, dragging itself up one more step, the seventh step.

  Up in the bedroom, the shoes sat on the table next to the bed. Rengo was fast asleep, the rising and lowering of his chest the only sign that he was alive.

  The shadowy figure moved heavily and sluggishly on the stairs up to the eighth step. “Where are my sho-o-o-es?” it moaned.

  The huge shadow made it up to the ninth step. Its red eyes glowed with hatred, and its body trembled with the struggle of making it up one more step.

  At last, the ghost dragged itself up the tenth and final step, turned its head towards the bedroom door, and stared and stared as it started to creep towards Rengo’s room.

  “Where are my sho-o-o-es?” it moaned.

  The huge shadow reached the door to Rengo’s room and pushed it open. It shoved itself inside. Then it stood still by the side of the bed where Rengo slept and looked down at the old man. There it stood, staring and occasionally glancing at the shoes that sat on the table.

  Asleep, Rengo was not aware of the mortal danger that stood right next to him. Outside, the wind blew across the window howling, while the cold, silvery light of the moon cast a grim shadow across the sleeping man.

  Slowly, the huge figure bent over Rengo. It grabbed the sleeping man by the throat and pulled him upward with one violent motion. With Rengo dangling in midair, the ghost picked up the shoes and started back out the door.

  A terrified Rengo struggled to free himself from the dead man’s grip with no success. The ghost’s grasping hand was like a vise that would not let go.

  Rengo could hardly breathe, much less scream. He struggled and struggled as the dead man started down the stairs, dragging himself and Rengo down.

  The next day when the villagers went searching for Rengo, they found a new trail that led to the cemetery. It looked as if someone had been dragged all the way to the graveyard. The trail stopped by an old grave. They never found Rengo again.

  THE YAQUI INDIAN AND THE DOGS

  THE YAQUI INDIAN AND THE DOGS

  This is a story of the hard lives that our forefathers endured. Death was their constant shadow and hunger was their curse.

  The old man sat among the misty crags of the Copper Canyon in the Sierra Madre Occidental Mountains. He could see the distant valley through the morning mists. This was to be his last trip through these mountains. He had two companions with him. Both were young warriors from his tribe, a tribe of Yaquis that lived in this region.

  His two companions beckoned to the old Yaqui. He picked himself up. They would start the descent here at this mountain pass. He looked around at the tall mountain peaks glistening so beautifully in the early morning sunlight. He was here with his gods among the clouds. He felt a strange, lonely feeling within himself. Soon he would descend the mountain for the last time.

  Quietly, he looked behind himself and whispered, “Goodbye, my mountains, my most beloved mountains,” as he followed his companions down the craggy rocks.

  The sun was rising fast. His throat was parched and he felt hunger pangs. They had been traveling for two days. He was tiring, and only his determined effort kept him moving down the mountain. He felt so alone, even the songs of the birds that echoed in the canyon seemed to be calling out to him, “Farewell and goodbye, old hunter.”

  Hours later, a little past high noon, they stopped to rest again. It had been such a long time since he had made a trip such as this. His mind drifted back to the village in the high mountain peaks.

  Food had always been scarce. The young had to be fed. Their survival was also the survival of the tribe. The Yaquis had been forced to flee their rich valleys and to run into the mountains to escape the evil Spaniards who had enslaved some of the other Indian tribes.

  The tribe had chosen to fight and escape, rather than be conquered and forced into Spanish slavery and made to kneel to a foreign, bloody god. Their will to survive kept them in the high mountains with their Yaqui gods hovering around them. Here, no Spanish horse or soldier could follow. But their lives became plagued by hunger and starvation. They could get very little food from the land.

  In order for the tribe to survive, the village elders decided by secret vote that those who had reached their fiftieth year would be asked to leave the village and go down into the valley to seek their fate. This would enable the younger generation to have a larger share of the food.

  Food was a critical factor, so the older generation was sacrificed for the sake of the tribe. If food was plentiful, the old ones were allowed to remain for another season. But as soon as hard times came, the dreaded decisions were made. Sometimes they left in groups of three and sometimes alone, to go down the mountain. Only the tribe’s leaders were excluded from this rule of expulsion.

  A time of famine had hit the tribe, and the old man was the only one who had reached the dreaded age of fifty. He had been chosen to leave the village the following morning. It had been hard to say goodbye to his family. His wife would be reaching the dreaded age next spring. He had hoped they might have gone down the mountain together.

  But here he found himself going down the mountain with two warriors who were to accompany him three-quarters of the way. The last leg of the journey he had to make on his own. The warriors would sit and watch his descent, and any attempt on his part to return up the mountain would bring him instant death from the two warriors. These were the rules of the elders. There was to be no return, only a one-way trip for the chosen ones.

  They reached the three-quarter mark, a point known as the Three Little Old Men because of the three ancient trees that stood there. Past this point, the old Yaqui would be on his own.

  He looked back at his young companions, and they called out to him, “Goodbye, old one! Go with the god of the mountains!”

  He called back to them, “Goodbye, my sons!”

  They looked at him sadly as they watched him go down the mountain like a lonely creature lost in the vast space of the rocky landscape.

  The Yaqui hiked down the mountain slowly. He would not look back, he told himself. He felt like an old wolf run out from his pack’s lair. The only strong feeling within his body was survival. Survival was the key now! His limbs felt old and his body was aching, but he walked down the mountainside and into the valley. Then he headed toward the hill of huge boulders and rocks known as the Bones of Death.

  Once he reached the hill, he would have to decide whether to remain there and die, or to walk further into the valley and into the village of the half-breeds and beg for his life. No Indian would ever think of going into the village. The Indians hated and feared the mestizos. Stories were told in hushed tones of the cruelties that befell any Indian who was caught in the lowland village. The lowlands had been forbidden by the elders since the great dispersion of the tribes at the hands of the Spaniards. No contact with mestizos was permitted. They were to be avoided at all costs. The rule was lifted only when the dreaded age came and the outcasts were sent down to choose their fate.

  The Yaqui reached the hill of boulders and rocks. He now realized why this hill was called the Bones of Death. Everywhere lay skeletons and bits of broken bone. Large crows sat all over the rocky area. At first he felt revulsion at the sight, but he calmed down and told himself, “These are the bones of my predecessors. Why should I fear them? Why should I fear my own people?” Tears welled in his eyes. All his friends were here.

  “Why? Why?” he yelled. His voice echoed down into the val
ley and hillsides. This frightened the crows and they all burst into flight, cawing and cawing. The noise overwhelmed the previously quiet valley.

  The tired Yaqui stood in a stupor among the dark boulders with the bones at his feet lying around in a loose pattern like bird droppings on the rocks. He did not move even after the crows had settled once again among the rocks and sat there looking at him, miniature judges in their black robes ready to sentence him to death.

  “What shall I do? Should I choose life and walk down to the feared mestizo village and take my chances, or should I choose death?” The old man was aware of the mass of bones scattered around him, the bones of his predecessors who had chosen death.

  “All my brothers and sisters,” he thought as he glanced around at the scattered bones.

  He felt sad, yet within himself he felt an ancient feeling that was arising strongly, gnawing at his brain. Life, life, choose life! it said to him. He knew that this feeling would be hard to fight. You must live! his mind told him. He really wanted to live. This feeling was inbred within his soul. It was a feeling born from centuries of tribal suffering, nomadic wanderings, and battles against human adversaries and natural calamities.

  He had seen so much during his lifetime. He knew that someday his wife and children would have to pass this way. The old man hoped that their journey would be merciful. The thought depressed his spirits.

  The decision was his to make on this quiet lonely hillside. The sun was starting to go down and long shadows were forming across the valley floor. The light was beginning to fade. If he were to live, he needed to start down to the village now.

  He looked up at the darkening sky, and at the birds rustling their feathers and settling down to sleep. He had no food, no water, and his strength was ebbing.

  “Even birds must eat, even worms must eat. Let my body feed these poor creatures after I am gone. I will stay with my brothers and sisters. My spirit will be free, and my life will not have been in vain for my death will beget life. On this earth, in order to survive we feed upon the death of one another.”