el Nagual

Magdalena disliked most things about her new life in America, but she particularly hated school. Not only were the teachers hard to understand, but her strong southern Chihuahuan Spanish made her the object of harassment and bullying. This wasn’t just from the Gringos. Even the other Mexican, Chicano, and Hispanic children abused her because of her rural accent.

Every day was worse than the one before. Once, to escape the constant torment, Magdalena skipped school. When an administrator called her aunt at work to inquire about the girl’s whereabouts, everyone panicked. Kidnapped, murdered, run-away. Not long after the pell-mell hysteria began, Magdalena was found sitting on a park swing humming her abuela’s lullabies and was subsequently beaten bloody by her uncle.

So, instead of disappearing, Magdalena vanished into dreams and dreams of dreams.

She’d shut her eyes and visit her birthplace and home of ten years in Cacachila. Remember the Florido River she visited twice a day with her mother to gather water. Wading out past the reeds into the river with her dress tucked in at the waist. Stepping softly through the rich and muddy tributary. The soil squishing between her toes. Feeling the current pick up as she wandered deeper into the cool water. Stopping once she felt her dress bloom and, then, returning to the safety of her mother. Or, Magdalena dreamt of her abuela who’d sit up late by candlelight and tell her fairy tales or stories from her own youth. Over and over, she’d beg her grandmother to recount the “Gypsy Queen” or the “Forbidden Chamber.” Frightful tales with happy endings that Magdalena could recount word for word.

Her favorite tales were of the Nagual who was a powerful brujo that transformed into a giant beast at night. Often, the Nagual came to do evil like bring sickness, steal, or even drink blood. But, she mustn’t fear, her abuela explained; their family had sangre de brujo, so she was safe from the shapeshifter. This was great comfort to Magdalena, so she never feared the provinces of night.

She once tried to dream of her father, but of him Magdalena had no memory. He’d died while she grew inside her mother. Her recollections were tales passed down by her madre. She recounted his noble exploits, grand abilities, and Christian martyrdom. Explaining all with a great waving of her hands. They would be living in a great palacio if he was alive and not cut down by an assassin in Mexico City.

Magdalena believed these tales for years until her abuela told her the truth one night. “Mi hija vive en una fantasía,” she said with the flip of a dishrag. “Your padre was a borracho. Died over a puta who placed her own value at two pesos.” Magdalena’s eyes went wide. Her abuela sat down next to her, her kind eyes reflecting and dancing in the candlelight. “Esa es la verdad. You deserve to know. Acuchillado en casa de prostitutas. You mustn’t let it define you, nor must it contain you. Your madre has. Pero no puedes. Me escuchas?”

“Sí,” Magdalena said and kissed the tips of her fingers with great solemnity.

***

Horribly garbled music played out of the car’s speakers. Lyrics indistinguishable. Magdalena sat next to her cousin in the backseat of her aunt’s Honda Accord. They were on the way to school. Ramón bobbed up and down to the beat in a manner that reminded her of the chickens who pecked at the dirt outside her home in another country. He flailed his arms like someone taken into a fit, and she crossed herself with a smile.

“Come on, Lena,” he said. “This is Drake. He is so cool. Everyone likes him.”

She shook her head and clutched her bag. Magdalena pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose like someone beset by a horrible smell. She opened her mouth but paused, fearful of words spoken aloud even to her own sangre. He stared at her with benign insolence and she finally squeaked, “no es good.”

He looked affronted. “This is why you have no friends,” Ramón shouted.

“Tranquilos,” her aunt screamed from the driver’s seat. “Stop!” Two eyes glared at Magdalena in the rearview mirror. They supposedly matched her father’s, but she did not know for sure. Even sepia pictures were just conjecture.

“No one wants you here,” Ramón quietly hissed. “Mi mamá just feels sorry for you. Regrésate a México.”

Ojalá pudiera, she thought. Ojalá pudiera.

It wasn’t her idea to come to America. Only misfortune made it so. Her mother worked in a neighboring village at the grand estancia of Don Manuel Ramos. The jefe lived in the capital and occasionally visited his many ranchos throughout Mexico. One fateful day, he was late for a shooting party and driving too fast. His Mercedes struck and killed Magdalena’s mother as she walked home. A crumpled and disfigured body left to be found by others. Don Ramos accepted responsibility and gave Magdalena’s abuela 500 pesos for her loss. A body and twenty-four dollars.

Yet, misfortune did not end there. For it was not through with Magdalena just yet.

Her abuela spoke of life going on. “La ley del hombre no está aquí,” she would say with a sigh. “Solo a Dios. Por Dios.”

One morning, Magdalena woke and didn’t smell the aroma of tortillas cooking on the comal. Didn’t hear the light flip as her abuela tossed the wrap with her naked hand to the other side. No soft humming of baladas clásicas from the next room. There was only silence and, Magdalena was scared in a way that she didn’t understand.

Her abuela was lying in bed peacefully with a smile on her face. Magdalena crept forward and touched the woman’s cold, blue hands. Firm and wooden. All of her heart was gone. Magdalena laid her head down on her abuela’s chest and wept. “Por favor no… Por Dios. Por favor Diosito... Por Dios.”

***

She felt the car slow and stop. Magdalena looked outside and saw her school. Two schoolmates were arguing out front with huge gestures, and it looked like two irate mimes preparing for battle. She laughed and got lost in amusement of something she used to know. It made her think of the time her abuela took her to see a carnival. Circo ambulante. Magdalena had her fortune read, watched the espectáculo de marionetas, los malabaristas, el bufón, los mimos, and la diva sing. Her abuela bought delicious sugar skulls that they ate on the walk home. It was a night against which all others would be judged.

Ramón jumped out of the car without a word and ran to a circle of his friends. Magdalena’s aunt didn’t turn around or acknowledge her charge. With a slight whimper, she opened the door and walked towards school. She felt her aunt’s eyes burning into her back. Making sure she didn’t run away. Doing the bare minimum. As always.

Magdalena put her head down and walked quickly towards the playground. There was a side entrance to the school where she wouldn’t be seen. Magdalena raised her eyes once and passed by a group of gringa girls who stared and laughed. Tiptoeing up the steps and looking like some petrified prey, Magdalena entered and hugged the cinderblock walls all the way to her locker. She quickly grabbed her books, entered her empty classroom, and sat very small in her seat.

She laid her head down and dreamed of walking barefoot to the village market. The vendors calling out their wares and the delicious smell of birria, flautas, and chicharrones.

“Ven y mira!” She heard. “Ven y mira! Ven y mira!”

***

Monday morning was English and Magdalena’s nightmare. She grasped the language but struggled with pronouncing words and mixing in Spanish. The Chicanos called it Spanglish, and everyone greeted it with varying hints of contempt.

In class, they’d all take turns reading different paragraphs out loud. Each student took a turn. Sweat beaded on Magdalena’s forehead as the bell rang. Students filed in, chatting and laughing on their way to their assigned seats. Magdalena sat surrounded by a group of boys whose primary purpose in life, it seemed, was to make her life a living infierno.

“Be seated!” shouted Mrs. Lawrie and she began handing out this week’s book, Where the Red Fern Grows. Each child took one and passed the others back. Magdalena juggled the books and accidentally dropped one.

“Wet back has wet fingers,” one of the boys whispered. The others cackled and clapped like apes.

“Shhh,” hissed Mrs. Lawrie.

Magdalena tried to shrink into nothing. Curl up into a tiny ball. Maybe shapeshift into something new. Anything else but a poor Mexicana far from home. She dreamt of being the Nagual. The brujo sangre does run through her veins. She’d teach all the bullies a lesson. Come at night to their homes and drink their blood. La venganza es mía, she thought with a smile. One row over, a student began to read the opening paragraph of Where the Red Fern Grows. Magdalena cast her eyes over to the offending boy and felt anger and shame. Anger because these bullies were teasing her for something she couldn’t help. She didn’t want to be in this country. Never asked to come to America. No citizenship. No community. Magdalena wanted to be in her homeland. Yet, the anger was wrong. Words of her abuela echoed in her mind. “La vida es lo que quiera la gente.” Perhaps, Magdalena thought, she could use the Nagual to scare them. Or, even better, travel back home.

“Magderlana,” said Mrs. Lawrie, butchering the girl’s name. “Magderlana, it’s your turn. Quit daydreaming and start at the top of page three.” More laughs.

Magdalena started reading. She felt like all eyes in the room were glaring at her. Burning holes in her head. She felt her pulse quicken, and the words on the page blurred and righted and blurred and righted and blurred. Her anxiety peaked, which made it worse. But, she kept reading word by word and struggled toward the end of the paragraph. Then, it would be someone else’s turn for the day.

“Magderlana!” said Mrs. Lawrie. “I appreciate your reading in that tongue but try it in English please. Not everyone knows your lingo.”

Horrified, Magdalena just realized she’d been reading out loud in Spanish. Her face flushed and she quickly asked, “Can I go to restroom?”

“I dunno,” said Mrs. Lawrie. “Can you?”

“May I,” squeaked Magdalena.

“Yes, but hurry.”

Magdalena stood, snatched her bookbag, and half ran towards the door. Behind her, she heard chanting. “Build that wall! Build that wall! Build that wall!” She took one quick look back before fleeing into the hallway. Her tormentors were clapping each other on the back and falling out of their chairs. Guffawing like a pack of imbeciles incapable of speech. A chill rolled down Magdalena’s spine.

Mrs. Lawrie was forcing back a smile.

She ran down the hall and tried to imagine herself as a loba, a wolf. A manifestation of the Nagual. Sleeking from sight. Silently padding down the halls, head bobbing from side to side, acutely aware of every single sight, smell, and sound. Precisely indexing each articulation. Tongue quivering from between her large incisors and hanging past her jaw. She’d raise her muzzle for the scent of others like her. Anyone like her.

Magdalena entered the restroom and went to the stall farthest from the door. It seemed empty, and she felt a calmness overcome her. She’d trembled all morning with anxiety, so this bleach and urine stenched haven was like an oasis of sanctity and serenity. She saw a vision of her abuela leading her down the aisles of the Church of la Inmaculada Concepción to the altar for communion. Magdalena looked down at the pale tiles as she walked and matched her abuela’s steps. Holding onto her rosary for dear life.

“Ven, mija,” her abuela whispered. “Calladita.”

Bang! She heard the bathroom door open and Magdalena froze. She heard the voices of the Chicana girls who took particular joy in teasing her. Everything was uncool. Her clothes, hair, backpack, shoes, and accent were all lame. They called her a malnacida, a peasant, and a peon.

Magdalena moved her feet softly and sat on the toilet rim to hide. But, when she did, the automatic flush went off. A hush fell over the restroom. She held her breath. The girls ceased talking and Magdalena heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching. She spied three sets of shoes outside the stall and saw her bookbag leaning against the door. Then, almost in a flash, her bag was gone.

Giggling erupted like some infernal chorus, and Magdalena was frozen in fear. She watched in horror as the contents of her bag spilled out onto the floor. Her lunch of tortillas, frijoles, and a small bag of fajitas de pollo plopped into view. Then, three pairs of sneakers stomped on her almuerzo.

“Come out peon!” a girl shouted.

“She doesn’t understand you. She can’t speak English,” said another.

“Sal, campesina! Sal de ahí!” cried the third.

“Leave me alone,” said Magdalena weakly from behind the door.

“That’s all she can say,” teased a girl.

Laughter all around. “Hola, malnacida.”

Magdalena steadily stepped down from the toilet. She clenched her eyes tight and felt anger swell. Her heart was beating like a pump, and electric pulses shot up and down her spine.

“Tengo sangre de brujo,” Magdalena whispered. “Yo soy el lobo. La bestia negra. El Nagual!”

Magdalena felt something change. The clearest vision of a wolf stamped like a stone etched in her mind. Her limbs shivered, and veins rose in her neck. She crouched low behind the door, arched her back, and breathed heavily like a being undergoing a complete transformation.

Laughter was still outside the stall door. Something guttural seemed to well up in the bottom of Magdalena’s throat. Growling that grew louder. A hush fell over the bathroom save for the snarling of the Nagual.

The lock was unlatched, and invectives of high chittering sounded from the other side of the partition. The Nagual flung open the door and strode forward with purposeful steps. The wolf stomped on the almuerzo without even looking down. No sustenance there.

Sangre, only sangre. The three girls looked absolutely terrified as if they’d entered a realm of petrification not yet studied, recorded, or understood. They clutched each other and let out high-pitched screams. The hackles stood straight up on the Nagual’s back. She flattened her ears and bared her teeth. Rearing back on her haunches, she growled and matched the steps of the girls who backed toward the door. The Chicana triune set to shouting pleading oaths and apologies in Spanish.

“Lo lamentamos mucho,” one shouted.

“No nos lastimes,” another cried.

“No volverá a suceder, lo juramos,” the leader shrieked.

The Nagual ignored the protestations. The bits of Spanish the Chicanos initially screamed morphed into unintelligible gibberings of no human tongue. As if they themselves shapeshifted from fear. There was a loud smack where the girls backed into the restroom wall. Unified hysterics were followed by the sound of the bathroom door opening. The Nagual’s ears twitched at the sound of the clapping of shoes on tiles as the three girls sprinted down the hallway with unmitigated cries of terror.

The bathroom door shut, and the Nagual sniffed the air. A glint caught her pale yellow eyes, and she turned toward the mirror. Ears flicked forward as the wolf’s head grew. The deep patter of paws from the huge hind legs echoed in the bathroom. The Nagual seemed to study her reflection. Vicious and powerful jaws moving slightly. Just a hint of terrible portents.

“Está bien,” a familiar voice sounded. “Está bien.”

“Abuela?” Magdalena asked. She looked up and saw her small face reflected in the mirror.

“Está bien. Eso fue muy valiente.”

Magdalena recognized the accent of southern Chihuahua. She turned from the mirror and saw a small girl playing with the hem of her shirt. She stood next to an open stall door, and Magdalena realized she’d come to the bathroom to hide as well.

“Esas tres son malas. I hide from them too.”

“What is your name?” asked Magdalena.

“Alejandra. Cuál es el tuyo?”

“Magdalena. Where are you from?”

“Chihuahua. From Naica.”

“Yo soy de Chihuahua también,” said Magdalena. There was silence. Then, Magdalena said, “I hate this country. Quiero regresar a casa. A México.” Tears filled her young eyes. She was breathing heavily. “No hay comunidad. No soy una ciudadana.”

Alejandra clicked her tongue and shook her head. “Sigues siendo Mexicana.” She touched her heart. “No matter where you go. Anywhere en el mundo. Right here.”

Magdalena wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Alejandra smiled and held out her arms. They hugged for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Alejandra let go and went to pick up the contents from Magdalena’s bag. Alejandra looked at the ruined lunch. “Puedes compartir mi comida,” she said. “Eres mi nueva amiga.”

“Sí,” Magdalena said. “Sí, lo soy.”