ocean mirror by cylo

36 ocean mirror, cylo

La Bruja de las Flores

fiction by Sarah Garcia

Outside the village of her childhood, Aurelia is greeted by two strange sights: one—an impossibly large thicket of thorns, so vast and innumerable that they blanket every visible inch of the town; and two—Santa Muerte herself, standing there in all her divine skeletal glory. Immediately, Aurelia drops to her knees, bowing her head in reverence to the diosa. “Señora, forgive my impudence. I only just noticed you.” Beneath her chin, two boney fingers lift her head back up until she is looking directly into the black, gaping, bottomless holes of that ancient skull. Santa Muerte speaks to her with no tongue, her voice raspy despite her lack of throat. “All is forgiven, mi niña. Please, speak freely. Why are you here?” Aurelia willingly sweeps her gaze over the diosa and shoves a bitter laugh down her throat. Despite being literally death itself and holding both a scythe and globe in her hands, the skeletal woman is dressed in the brightest hues, her sacred robes as multicolored as a rainbow, roses and Aztec marigolds and a various assortment of flowers protruding from her clothes and entwining with her bones. In contrast, despite being very much physically alive, Aurelia has clothed herself in a dress of black, with a sheer veil to match and hide her sleepless eyes, weighed down by prominent purple bags. She rises to her feet before the diosa and answers, “I was born here in this very village, and I have returned from overseas to visit the grave of my dearest friend Zoraida. She.. she passed while I was away... Señora, what has happened here? Where have all these thorns come from? Where are all the people?” Somehow, despite being a skeleton, Santa Muerte smiles. “Ah, you see, mi niña, they are inside those thorns. Trapped, unconscious, in a deep sleep. They find themselves under a curse.” “And…are you here to lift them out of said curse?” “Of course not. I’m the one who put it on them in the first place.”

38 This surprises Aurelia. One does not often hear of Santa Muerte meddling in human affairs. “Did they commit some great evil to provoke you so, if you don’t mind me asking?” Now the diosa looks sad, an impressive feat given her lack of eyes, her skeletal mouth morphing into a frown. “Sí, a great evil indeed… But now that you’re here, perhaps you will rectify it.” “How so?” “Go to Zoraida’s grave, and you shall find the secret behind these thorns in that graveyard. Only through your actions may they disappear and the villagers awaken.” Aurelia turns a weary glance to the entrance, so densely packed and sharp in each of its points, and asks, “So I must walk through the thorns then?” “Sí, mi niña. You will be scratched and torn and bloody by the end, but if you endure the pain and suffering, you will make it through alive. And if you decide to give up and turn back, the thorns will part for you so your escape is easy.” Aurelia considers the offer. She has already lost so much, grieved, suffered. A little more pain means nothing, especially if she can reunite with Zoraida. She approaches the brambles, picking up her inconvenient skirts. “Okay, I shall try.” “Excellent!” The diosa’s empty sockets stare after her from behind. “Good luck, mi niña.” Scanning the thorns ahead, Aurelia breathes out deeply before stepping into the thicket, desperately navigating her body around those sharp needles. All around her, she sees villagers lying unconscious on the earthen floor, bodies wrapped in the giant briars and skin pierced with thorns. Flowers once held decay and die in the streets. Meats and stews and other such foods brought out by wives to working husbands are toppled and scattered in the dirt, flies buzzing and ants crawling over the rotten meals. Aurelia worries as new doubts flood her mind. What if Santa Muerte has tricked her, lied to get her pricked by these thorns and fallen under the same curse as everyone else?

Shaking away these suspicions, Aurelia spots a small clearing after a few minutes of careful maneuvering, a short reprieve from all the brambles. She tiptoes her way over, dodging and weaving, and manages to get only her dress caught and torn in

the process. She nears this space, tension flowing out of her, when a thorn unexpectedly cuts across her upper left arm.

. . . . . . One morning, Nayeli awakens from her sleep on her home’s earthen floor to find herself once again lying in a small meadow of flowers. She sits up and rubs the sleep from her golden eyes, petals falling out of her dark hair. She rises and walks about her small quarters, barren of almost anything but nature’s wonders, more flowers springing forth from the dirt with her every step. She circles around the room and picks every flower that her eyes fall upon, more soon taking their place below her feet — roses, violets, jasmines, tulips, daisies, lilies, daffodils, and chrysanthemums. She performs this daily task and hums a sweet tune as the oak tree in the corner of her shack prepares her humble breakfast. She places her bouquet by the door and sits in an enclave of the tree’s roots, feasting on sunflower seeds, apple slices dipped in honey, and half an avocado. Newborn grass curls around her toes, and budding flowers burst into being. “Thank you for breakfast, oak. It’s delicious!” The tree bows its limbs to the child, grateful for the praise. Once she finishes her meal, she goes to where her sole pair of old, worn shoes sits and slips them on. Most other children in the village run freely while completely barefoot, playing and laughing with each other, but Nayeli can’t afford such a luxury. Not when her every step causes new patches of greenery to spring forth, dotting the streets and mercado and other pathways where they are unwanted by her fellow villagers. It is simply easier to avoid the conflict entirely. With shoes firmly planted on, Nayeli gathers the flowers that she picked into her arms and pushes her door open to the world beyond, loading her wheelbarrow outside and heading towards the mercado.

. . . . . .

Aurelia returns to her world with a start, pain flaring through her now bleeding arm as she crashes into the small clearing. Her head swirls with dizziness as the vision flashes still in her brain. Face lying in the earth, she glances up and sees Santa Muerte standing over her, not even casting a shadow in all her divinity. “Mi niña, I expect you have questions now.”

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Aurelia collects herself, veil covered in dirt and bits of rock as she stands. “What… what was that? I saw a child, a little girl… I don’t understand, why didn’t you mention visions like that would happen?” “But I did, mi niña. I told you that you would endure pain and suffering on this path, and that is exactly what you’ve seen.” The diosa cocks her head to the side in puzzlement. “But what about that was suffering? All I saw was a young girl grow flowers from her feet and eat breakfast made by a tree. Pain? That was practically pleasant to watch.” Santa Muerte sighs and shakes her head. “Ah, what mortal eyes cannot see — qué lástima.” She points a boney finger further down the street. “Keep going then, and your questions shall be answered.” She then swings that same finger behind. “Or go back the way you came and free yourself from this painful road.” Glancing backwards, Aurelia is surprised to find the diosa’s words true. All the briars have pulled themselves back, offering an easy exit. But all Aurelia can think of is seeing Zoraida, and so she moves to the next thicket ahead. As she bends her way through, she loses herself to sweet memories as she spots familiar locations. Her and Zoraida as they exit the schoolhouse on the corner, laughing merrily when freed from their studies. Her and Zoraida jumping rope and running carelessly in the streets. Her and Zoraida always sitting together in the chapel on the left while at Sunday service, passing notes and hardly paying attention to anyone or anything but each other. Aurelia once believed they would never be apart, that it would always be the two of them forever. Lost to nostalgia, the next cut slices through her veil and into her right cheek.

. . . . . .

The sounds of morning echo around Nayeli as she pushes her wheelbarrow forward. The usual viejas sweep their doorsteps, children squabble over the breakfasts their mamás have cooked, sellers at the mercado cry out their deals for the day in the distance. Everyone is so loud in contrast to her quiet self. Pollen stains her arms and palms, so she keeps away from the other children, cursed previously by angry mamás for provoking allergies in their sons and daughters. She’s almost never without the golden

substance on her body, dotting all her brown limbs like individual rays of sunlight dappled through a thick canopy of leaves. The yellow-spotted girl pushes her way through the waking crowds, no one offering her greetings like they do for other neighbors. Some, out of fear, grab their children and pull them away or perform the sign of the cross at the sight of her, while others, out of selfishness, worry the orphan will take any attention as a sign that she can stay in their homes, take up their space, and drain their food, coin, and time. Even now, when a papá notices how skinny she is and asks his wife if they should bring her a small meal, the child hears the harsh reply through a window: “Listen here, we have enough little ones to feed without worrying about the brujita. Why don’t you just worry about your own kids, hmm?!” With tears threatening to spill from her eyes, Nayeli presses onward past every cold shoulder and arrives at the mercado.

. . . . . .

Aurelia finds herself tangled in the thorns when she next awakes. She is afraid of moving her limbs too hastily and provoking another piercing wound. She wonders about the girl and the suffering Santa Muerte mentioned. The picture is murky, if not the slightest bit clearer. The girl was obviously quite lonely, without any parents, family, or even friends. Hot shame courses through Aurelia when she thinks of her former fellow villagers and how they treated the small, innocent child. Had they no compassion or kindness in their hearts? Was this the great evil Santa Muerte spoke of? But even so, why did they also fear the girl What danger was a little girl who grew flowers from her feet?

Deciding to waste no more time, Aurelia carefully disentangles herself from the branches and presses on. Cut after cut not breaching skin, her clothes are slowly ruined more and more as they’re sliced to ribbons. Ahead, she sees the town’s fountain sitting in the middle of the square and remembers all the parties once held there, the memories bittersweet. She and Zoraida had danced there together as children at quinceañeras and weddings and other such celebrations. As a teenager, she had sat there and watched as Zoraida danced in the moonlight and stole her heart in the process. She remembers her curled black hair that bounced off her shoulders, her eyes so dark that she lost herself

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in their depths, her sweet lips that she wanted so desperately to kiss. She remembers Óscar kissing Zoraida first. Drawn to the fountain as if in a trance, the thorn scratches across her back.

. . . . . .

At the mercado, Nayeli weaves her flower-filled wheelbarrow through the stalls and various vendors until she reaches Azahar, the local florist. The vieja carefully inspects the flowers, not finding a single dying petal or broken stem among their perfection, and proceeds to remove the chancla from her left foot and swat Nayeli over the head. “I told you to bring me Aztec marigolds, you idiota! My customers need flowers for Día de Muertos, not this basura!” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Nayeli clutches her head, rubbing at the sore spot where the blow landed. “You know I can’t control what grows, Señora…” She doesn’t dare call Azahar by her first name; she had learned that lesson months ago, during a previous encounter with the chancla. “Whatever,” the vieja grumbles, putting her shoe back on. “Make yourself useful and actually start selling this useless stock.” “Sí, Señora…” Luckily, despite all the fear, anger, and suspicion directed towards her, the villagers never restrained themselves from buying Nayeli’s flowers, for none could disagree that they were in fact the best, most gorgeous blooms they had ever seen. Even today, in contrast to Azahar’s reprimands, the flowers sell at a steady pace. Nayeli waves bye to each blossom as they find their new homes. As the morning transforms into noon, a commotion sounds from the village entrance. Glancing in that direction, the merchants notice a nobleman, followed shortly by his entourage, approaching on horseback, and the mercado’s inhabitants quickly busy themselves with displaying their best and most expensive items. He trots in and, within mere seconds of arriving, starts an argument with a cloth merchant. Nayeli watches the exchange with fear and nerves swirling in her gut, and seeing Azahar approach her, she can already guess her next awful demand. “Go and offer your flowers to that rich man.” The vieja points wildly to him. “Raise the price too; he’ll never know the difference!”

“But I don’t think-” “Stop whining and get over there! Or do you want to be out of a job?!” With a sigh, Nayeli swallows her trepidation, gathers her most beautiful flowers into her arms, and heads to the nobleman.

. . . . . .

Aurelia is lying in the lap of Santa Muerte, seated on the lip of the fountain, when she returns to the present. Her skeletal hand combs through Aurelia’s hair in a soothing motion. She realizes that she cried unknowingly in her sleep and is suddenly grateful for the motherly contact. “Tell me, mi niña,” says the diosa softly. “Why did you leave this village?” Aurelia is quiet for a moment before responding, seeing no point in hiding her woes from the literal embodiment of death. “Because I couldn’t stand to see them together—Zoraida and Óscar. When she told me they were engaged, I… my heart broke and seeing them—her—so happy without me felt like they were stepping on and fracturing those shards. So, I… I left.” “I see, I see. You said earlier that you’ve been overseas.” “Sí, whatever took me as far from here as possible. Zoraida was so happy for me too, oblivious to my pain. She thought I was seeking adventure, but all I truly wanted was her…” Santa Muerte nods, wiping away Aurelia’s fresh tears, the bone cool on her fleshy cheek. “And what was your life like overseas?” “Awful, miserable, lonely. I tried to put everything behind, live a normal life.. find a husband like I was supposed to…” “And did you?” “S-Sí.” “And what happened?” A new batch of sobs rise to claim Aurelia. All her pain feels as present now as it did back then. “He, he was a good man, nothing wrong with him. But I—I couldn’t make it work, reciprocate what I was meant to, no matter how hard I tried…I thought, at least, if we had a child together, everything would be bearable, but three days, my baby girl didn’t even make it three days on this earth. And now Zoraida, my sweet Zoraida,

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even she has been taken from me-” Aurelia’s anguished, rapid-fire words are interrupted as Santa Muerte pulls her up and embraces her in a surprisingly warm hug. “Shhh, mi niña, shhhh, it’s alright. I’m here. Give me all your sorrow, all your pain. It’s alright, I can bear it for you.” Gladly accepting the offer, Aurelia clutches tightly at the diosa’s robes, sobbing and wailing for what feels like hours. Gradually, eventually, she tires of releasing her burden and goes limp, speaking in a quiet voice. “It took so many years for the news to reach me overseas.. So many damn years… My Zoraida has gone unmourned long enough. I must- I must see her.” “You will, mi niña, you will.” Santa Muerte releases her hold and gestures to the path forward where, now that she’s cleared so many of the thorns, she can see the hillside graveyard nearby. “Your destination is atop that hill. You’ll find the grave there if you keep moving.” Thinking back on her previous vision, a chill runs up Aurelia’s spine. “I have a bad feeling about what’s next.” The diosa nods and pats her hand. “It is wise of you to think so.” Exhausted, Aurelia forces herself up and leaves Santa Muerte behind, traversing onward. She is barely halfway through the next set of brambles before they slice into her left thigh.

. . . . . .

“Excuse me, Señor, would you like to buy some flowers?” Nayeli can’t hide the trembling in her voice as she approaches and speaks to the nobleman, sat highly on his horse that towers above her small body. Her shaking only worsens when he turns to her with a cold glare. “Who said you could speak to me? Get out of my way, peasant. Don’t you see I’m

busy?”

His statement is clearly not true; Nayeli specifically chose to only talk to him when he was in-between vendors, when he wasn’t busy at all. “Oh, um, no one, Señor, my apologies, I’m just selling-” “Why do you keep talking? How dare you even try to sell something to me. You’re filthy! Why would ever I buy from the likes of you?”

“I-I’m sorry, Señor. I’ll leave-” Nayeli tries to swiftly exit, but the nobleman now feels a fury that he believes righteous. Clearly, the peasants need to be put in their place. From atop his horse, he leans down, snatches her hand, and yanks her back, ignoring her pained yelp from the force of his grip. “Whose child is this?” He calls to the mercado crowd, ignoring the squirming of the girl below. “Who will answer for her lack of respect?” Not a single adult jumps to her defense, not even Azahar, who stays far back. Some have the decency to look ashamed, pitying Nayeli but holding their tongues. Others simply want the spectacle to end, caring nothing for the girl they have already written off as not human, a monster. Nayeli feels it, vicious and painful as it wraps around her heart: hatred. She hates them all for every unwarranted slight, curse, mockery, and abuse that cast her away. What had she ever done to them? She tried so hard to prove herself, to be good, but it was never enough. Was her despicable, unforgivable ‘crime’ simply being born? With sorrow and rage swirling inside, Nayeli bites into the nobleman’s hand to force him to release her. “Ah!” he yelps with a dark scowl. “You little puta! You’ll pay for this!”

And with that, he tosses her violently to the ground. The mercado watches as Nayeli is thrown, all the flowers held in her grasp getting released into the air and onto the earth like raindrops from heaven. The closest to her hear a sickening crunch as the back of this most unlucky girl’s head lands on a sharp, protruding rock sticking out from the ground, piercing her skull. In shock, they witness her choked gasp, the twitching of her body as she lies flat on her back. In brief moments, she dies. All see the blood that pools out from the back of her head in a ghastly halo.

. . . . . .

Breaking out of her vision, Aurelia vomits into the brambles beneath her. The image of that sweet child dead—murdered—plays back on a loop in her mind as she empties out the contents of her stomach. Her eyes burn with more tears, even though she thought herself emptied from crying into Santa Muerte’s shoulder. She trudges forward, and resolved to see what happened next, Aurelia grabs at a branch and pushes a thorn into her palm like a stigmata.

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The earth quakes. People scream in horror and terror. They watch the land open with a crack as Santa Muerte emerges from the ground, scooping up the dead Nayeli in her arms. With her boney fingers, she gently pulls the child’s wide eyes closed. Her cold, angry gaze sweeps around the crowd, and all fall to their knees in supplication. Even the nobleman hops off his horse clumsily to do so in panicked fear. “You have dared to kill this child, my most precious one, for whom blood was sacrificed to put her on this earth.” The diosa’s voice booms like a roll of thunder as she speaks. “You have done great evil—all of you—for what you have done here, whether you killed, hurt, mistreated, or ignored her. You must face punishment for your wicked deeds.” “Please, most holy one,” begs the nobleman. “Have mercy-” Brambles erupt out from the back of Nayeli’s corpse and head straight for the nobleman. The sharp branches wrap around his limbs, his torso, his face, and twist. They tighten themselves around and pierce his form, earning pained scream after pained scream from his lips. With one final twist, the thorns pull outward and tear him apart, limb from limb, the plant eagerly drinking in his blood as nourishment as it flows out and showers down. Santa Muerte looks around to the faces of the villagers, their shock and terror completely on display. The smile she gives them in return is hollow and thus all the more sinister. “No need to worry. Your punishments will not be nearly as severe. Rest now, mis niños.” And with that, the thorns expand out and multiply, covering the entire village in one giant web. They sink their fine points into each and every resident’s skin, forcing them into the deepest of slumbers. Santa Muerte walks through the devastation, cradling Nayeli’s corpse in her arms, and journeys to the graveyard’s hilltop.

. . . . . .

Aurelia pulls her hand back as the vision fades. Close by, she notices the rotting limbs of an old corpse. She spits at what was once the nobleman in disgust and keeps marching her way up the path to the graveyard. The closer she gets, the thorns lessen, thinning out as if clearing the way. Still, she can’t help but feel that some big piece of this puzzle remains missing from her visions, though she can’t put her finger on what.

Passing through the graveyard’s gate, she spots a mound of vegetation resting at the top of the hill. Hoping it provides her the answer she seeks, Aurelia climbs upward, wounded but willing. She crests over the incline and finds a bed of flowers resting on a gravestone. The delightful colors all crowd around the still figure of Nayeli, trapped in a sleep-like death. Brambles wrap loosely around her bed like a protective cage. Glancing at the gravestone, Aurelia spots the two names it’s dedicated to: Zoraida and Óscar. Finally, at last, her journey has ended. She has reached her Zoraida once more. But still, the unmoving body of Nayeli draws all her sorrow and interest. Why is she here? Why has her corpse been laid across Zoraida and Óscar’s shared grave? Desperate for answers, Aurelia grabs the thorns encompassing Nayeli and pulls them apart.

. . . . . .

Many years ago, in a small remote village, there lived a woman and a man who longed to have a child of their own. Their names were Zoraida and Óscar. It was all they wanted in the entire world, but after many attempts over the years, they always lost the child to either miscarriage or illness. Forever grief-stricken and almost depleted of all hope, they traveled to the hill above their village’s graveyard, got down on their knees, and prayed. For a whole week, they prayed without pause or reprieve on that highest point where they best felt someone, anyone, would hear their pleas. On the seventh day, amidst their supplication, Santa Muerte appeared—regal as ever. “Hello, mis niños. I have heard your cries from on high and have been deeply moved,” announced the diosa. “I will grant your request, but it will come at a price. If you lay down your lives here and now, I will birth you a daughter formed from the very essence of the flowers themselves. The spring will follow in her every step as her constant companion. Her plants will always care for her every single need. And if any should dare to strike her down and bring death on another of your children, a terrible vengeance shall be reaped upon the land and those wicked individuals. She shall remain my ward always and forever. Do you accept this proposal?” Zoraida and Óscar looked to each other with grim determination. They had resided in this village their entire lives, loved and been loved by all their neighbors. If they could trust any to care for their most wanted child, it would be this community.

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They had faith in their care and goodness. With tears in their eyes, the couple embraced and shared a parting kiss together. When Santa Muerte extended her boney hand to them, Zoraida and Óscar latched on and kissed the diosa’s white knuckles. “Sí, sí, we accept,” Óscar said. “Please, take our lives so our child may finally have the chance to live,” said Zoraida. Santa Muerte grinned down at them and cradled the heads of her two subjects. “And what shall be her name?” Glancing to Óscar for his nod of approval, Zoraida spoke with the softest of smiles etched across her face. “Nayeli, for it means ‘I love you’ and we want our child to always know that she is so deeply, deeply loved, no matter where life may take her.” The diosa combed through their hair in a reassuring gesture. “An excellent choice. Nayeli she shall be.” And with that, she took the lives they had freely given her and transported their spirits to her eternal kingdom of death. Out from the earth, brambles emerged and wrapped around their bodies, draining the blood from their cold veins. These thorns absorbed all they could from their corpses until only bones remained, frozen in tangled worship. The power of their love flowed into the roots of a beautiful Aztec marigold growing between them, which blossomed into the largest of its kind ever seen. The bud remained unopened until a villager came upon the hill and screamed at the horrific, skeletal sight. Only then did the flower bloom and reveal a newborn baby resting inside, stained with an afterbirth of pollen, wrapped in a mossy blanket with the name “Nayeli” etched across its front. And with that, in the villagers’ hearts, the terrifying Nayeli, la bruja de las flores, was born.

. . . . . .

Aurelia receives her final vision and weeps. She weeps for Zoraida, for Óscar, for their beautiful daughter and her horrid fate. She reaches into the flower bed and gently lifts Nayeli’s perfectly preserved body out. She embraces the small girl and whispers to her over and over, “I’m so sorry, I should have been here to care for you, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

“Do you mean that?” Aurelia startles out of her grief at the sudden intrusion of the voice and sees Santa Muerte crouched down across from her, staring at her intently. “Do you really mean it, that you wish you could have cared for Nayeli?” “Sí, of course!” She returns the diosa’s gaze directly, so she knows Aurelia speaks the truth—no lies or deception hidden in her words. “Even if it meant laying down your life, here and now?” Her next words form purely on instinct. “Even if it meant my life, I would gladly give it.” The diosa watches her for a long, hard moment before breaking out into an unexpected grin. “No need for that. You have more than paid your weight in suffering, mi niña, so I shall give this opportunity to you freely. If you accept these terms, if you truly wish to care for this child—please, kiss her forehead.” Confused but filled with the smallest of hopes, Aurelia leans down and kisses the top of Nayeli’s head as instructed, sending all her love, grief, and promises to protect this girl like her own daughter into the action. In the distance, thorns begin to recede. Bodies start to groggily become mobile once more. Noise permeates the air as children cry out for their mamás and papás, cranky from their naps. And as Aurelia pulls away, she discovers Nayeli, eyes open and blinking, awake after a long, death-like sleep.

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