Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia

Author:Silvia Moreno-Garcia
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, pdf
Publisher: Quercus
Published: 2020-06-29T23:00:00+00:00

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That night she had another curious dream. She could not even classify it as a nightmare because she felt calm. Numb, even.

The house had metamorphosed in the dream, but it was not a thing of meat and sinew on this occasion. She walked upon a carpet of moss, the flowers and vines crept up the walls, and long, thin stacks of mushrooms glowed a pale yellow, lightening up the ceiling and the floor. It was as if the forest had tiptoed into the house in the middle of the night and left a part of itself inside. As Noemí descended the staircase, her hands brushed upon a banister covered in flowers.

She walked down a hallway that was thick with clumps of mushrooms as high as her thighs and peered at paintings that were hidden under layers of leaves.

In the dream she knew where she ought to go. There were no iron gates to greet her at the cemetery, but why would there be any? This was the time before the cemetery, when they were building a rose garden upon the mountain slope.

A garden, though no flowers grew here yet. No flowers had taken. It was peaceful here, at the edge of the pine forest, with the mist shrouding rocks and shrubs.

Noemí heard voices, very loud, and then a piercing scream, but everything was so still, so calm, that it calmed her too. Even when the screams changed in pitch and seemed to grow in intensity she did not fear.

She reached a clearing and beheld a woman who lay on the ground. Her belly was huge and distended, and she appeared to be in the midst of her labor, which would explain the screams. Attending her were several women who were holding her hand, brushing the limp hair from her face, muttering to her. Men held candles in their hands, others carried lanterns.

Noemí noticed a little girl sitting on a chair, her blond hair tied in a pigtail. She carried a white cloth in her arms, meant to swaddle an infant. A man sat behind the child, with his ringed hand on her shoulder. A ring of amber.

The scene was a little ridiculous. A woman, panting and giving birth in the dirt while the man and the child sat in velvet-upholstered chairs, as if they were observing a theater performance.

The man tapped his finger on the child’s shoulder. One, two, three times.

How long had they sat there, in the dark? How long since the labor had begun? But it wouldn’t be long now. The time had come.

The pregnant woman clutched someone’s hand and let out a long, low moan, and there was a wet sound, the slap of flesh against the damp earth.

The man stood up and approached the woman, and when he moved, the people surrounding her stepped aside, as if a sea were parting.

Slowly he bent down and carefully held the child the woman had birthed.

“Death, overcome,” the man said.

But when he raised his arms, Noemí saw he held no child.

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