Godmother

Chapter Six

Notes: The good news is, I don't have Covid after all, just a bad chest infection. Hooray and boooo at the same time.

…..

Sewing the wedding dress was more a way for Mirabel to keep herself occupied (distracted)than anything else. The fabric was satin, possibly imported, and she'd been given several skeins of superfine wool in a range of colours for embroidery. She kept the skirt hem just above the ankle and gathered the waist so that it fanned out in layers. The embroidered parts were small, almost hidden; she had the feeling that her groom didn't want any obvious signs of her pining for home. She didn't bother with a veil.

She had never been a person that cried easily; she'd taught herself from an early age to hide her tears and put on a brave face. Even in this place, constantly threatened with rape and violence, she had managed not to shed a tear at her predicament. But once she tried on her wedding gown to check the fit in the mirror, the full enormity of what was going to happen to her hit her all at once.

My father won't be walking me down the aisle.

I won't be able to hug my mother one last time before I become a wife.

My family won't be there to celebrate my marriage.

I am marrying a monster.

I'm going to give birth to a monster's children.

He is going to hurt me.

She sank to the floor in her beautiful satin dress and sobbed her heart out. She was so consumed by her sadness that she didn't notice when the smell of smoke started wafting around her room.

…..

Vargas, true to form, was the first to notice the fire. It had spread quickly in the dry brush of the forest, no doubt helped along by some sort of accelerant, but luckily it hadn't touched the plantation yet. He knew full well that hovering just outside the plantation gates were a rival group waiting to pick them off with guns as they tried to evacuate. It was one of El Verraco's own tricks, he had taken down many of his own rivals with it. Los Brutales, even when taken by surprise, knew better than to fall for such a plot.

El Verraco was calm as he issued the orders to his men. The plantation had to be evacuated of course, but only as far as the storage bins. They could take positions behind them to shoot back at their attackers, the stone roof of the coolhouse would shelter them from the approaching fire and the rivals would soon give up. They always did.

There was the little matter of the girl, though.

Let her burn, Vargas thought, his ego still stinging from his rejection. It was unfair, he knew that, and unlikely to happen, but he really didn't feel like going back into the building when the flames were licking the roof.

"Go get the girl," El Verraco commanded, as expected. "Find somewhere safe to tether her up."

There was really only one place that was safe enough to do that. The cliff-face had a series of indents, shallow little shelves carved into the rockface. There was just enough space for a man to stand up, provided he didn't have big feet. Los Brutales used these indents for prisoners they needed to squeal on someone; a few hours there, looking over the drop into the valley, would make anyone talk. But the girl wouldn't be there for long, and she would fit into the floor space easier than the average prisoner.

And maybe some time over the valley would make her rethink my proposal.

She was trying on her wedding dress when he burst in on her, and he half-thought about making her get changed before he pulled her out, but decided against it. The plantation was filling up with smoke.

"What's happening?" she managed to ask between coughing fits, as he dragged her outside towards the back of the house.

"Some stupid cabrónes trying to burn us out," he muttered back, his face covered with a bandana. "Nothing we haven't dealt with before. But you need to be out of the way."

Silly little puta struggled with him a bit when he dragged her to the nearest indent and wrapped the chain inside around her waist. It was coupled to something that might have been a large vine or the root of a tree, embedded in the rock. It was safe as could be.

"You're going to leave me here?" she asked. The ground she was standing on crumbled a little under her feet.

"It's safer than where I'm going to be," Vargas replied with a careless shrug. "I'd advise you to stay still until I get back."

A few hours dangling over the cliff would do her good, he thought as he picked up his gun to fight back. It would remind her who she needed to stay on good terms with if she wanted to be safe.

…..

The group on the opposing cliff had only one set of binoculars between them, but they were just about able to see a man drag Mirabel out of the plantation house and tie her up on a ledge just over the valley, which was now completely engulfed by flames.

Isabela held the binoculars while the other three tried to find a way to get to her. Her relief at seeing her sister alive was tempered with the anger and sadness of seeing her like this; pale, far too thin and clearly terrified. Blind as she was, all she could likely see was black smoke and flames.

"None of these trees are long enough to bridge the gap," Luisa called.

The wall of fire was blocking them off, the militia had set it behind them. The valley was the only way of getting to the plantation.

"It's all just gunfire and shouting, I can't tell who's winning," Dolores said.

There was really only one solution; Isabela would have to make something grow from the other cliff. She handed the binoculars to Camilo.

"Keep an eye on the root she's chained to," she commanded. "I'm going to try and make it grow."

….

The rock ledge she was standing on was dangerously unstable, Mirabel could feel it shift with every breath. The chain that was keeping her anchored to the cliffside was obviously meant for someone much bigger; had she been anywhere else, she might have been able to slip out of it and make a run for freedom. Right now, it was the only thing that was keeping her in place.

The valley below looked like the mouth of hell. Nothing but a roaring carpet of flame with plumes of thick smoke and ash, thrashing like a living thing.

Shots rang out all around her, impossible to tell if it was Los Brutales or the attackers. Someone was strafing around the coolhouse carelessly, hoping to catch someone. A few of those shots punched into the rock above her head.

And then, the root that the chain was wrapped around started to move. It pushed against her back, she had to quickly shift to one side to avoid falling forward.

…..

Making things grow had always been so easy for Isabela, but now at the very moment she needed it most, it was a tremendous strain. She found the root her sister was tied to, tried to coax it outwards. The tree was old, sturdy, its roots ran deep into the earth and it was not yet on fire. If she could just get it to grow, it could shoot across the valley and deliver Mirabel safely to them.

The tree was old, sturdy, set in its ways. It did not want to move.

…..

Some fool on the attackers' side was setting off gelignite by tossing incendiary bottles at it, the ground shook, but Los Brutales held firm. Vargas was positioned just behind El Verraco, holding a rifle he had no intention of shooting unless he absolutely needed to.

"Is the girl safe?" El Verraco asked.

It only just occurred to Vargas then, that El Verraco didn't know the girl's name. He never even asked.

She's wasted on you.

"Safe as can be," Vargas replied, then he ducked as another round of strafing hit the barricades.

…..

Mirabel's arms were pinned to her sides, but gingerly she managed to slide them out from under the chain. She only dared to move an inch at a time, any further sent a shower of crumbling rock down into the hellmouth of the valley.

Despite the combined racket of the fire, the shooting, the explosives and the enemies shouting at and to each other, Mirabel thought she could hear the same whispering that had been haunting her dreams. It sounded like it came from below her, in the flames.

She was wondering about it when two bullets ricocheted off of the coolhouse wall and caught her in the leg. One punched clear through her calf, the other buried itself deep into the bone of her thigh. The injured leg folded in on itself and she fell forward, dragging the chain with her.

…..

"Isabela, stop! She's falling!"

Isabela stopped instantly, and grabbed the binoculars from Camilo.

"What happened?" she asked, her heart beating so hard it felt like it was going to jump out of her body.

"I don't know, she just...dropped!"

"Someone was shooting over there," Dolores mumbled, her hands over her ears. She was rocking on the spot. "Díos Mio, did she get shot?"

"She's hanging on," Isabela told them. "She's still got the chain, she's hanging on...I need to get her over here..."

She threw the binoculars over her shoulder and concentrated on growing the root that was now dangling Mirabel over the fire, twice as hard as she had before. A burning sensation spread across her brain, little veins popped out on her skin, a trickle of blood started dribbling from her nose...

Grow, damn you! Grow!

The root pushed out of the rock, maybe two feet, maybe three.

Then it stopped.

…..

The attackers had given up. Three of them stayed behind to lay covering fire but one was hit by a sniper's bullet, the other two captured. El Verraco would deal with them later. All in all, the attack had been an annoyance. It was a shame about the forest, which would blaze for hours, maybe days, but they could move out of the plantation into another of the hideouts. They were cut off from the valley but they could keep walking along the river.

"Go fetch my bride," El Verraco said. "I think we'll be moving the wedding forward, just in case."

…..

The gunshots didn't hurt much, Mirabel's leg mostly felt numb. But she assumed she'd lost quite a lot of blood, because her head was spinning. She had just about managed to wrap the chain around her wrist before she fell, and the root she was hanging onto felt like it was bouncing around under her weight.

If I fall she thought, with a giddiness that seemed at odds with her situation, what'll kill me first? The impact or the fire?

"Shit," she heard someone hiss from the cliff-face. "Didn't I tell you to stay still?"

"I did," she answered, twisting in the wind. "I still am."

She heard the tall man bark for the rest of the men to help him, she was too far down for him to reach and pull her up. These militiamen, in their khaki trousers and leather boots, they blended into the rocks. To her, they just looked like a group of vaguely dun-coloured blobs.

Not El Verraco, though. Even through her sightless eyes, he was always sharp, made of shadows and corners. He was reaching down his hand to her.

"Pull yourself up," he commanded.

His men were holding him steady as he leaned towards her.

"Take my hand, I'll pull you up," he commanded again.

She felt blood dripping down her leg, dangling off of her toe, before it fell away into the fire.

I don't want to die.

The whispers circled around and around in her mind.

Let go. This is not the life for you. Let go, and your suffering will be over.

El Verraco clearly knew what she was thinking, because his next command was tinged with a small bite of panic.

"Get up here NOW!" he bellowed, reaching for her with such force that he nearly brought his own men down with him.

She took a deep breath, made her peace with death, and pulled her hand out of the chain.

She let go.

…..

They watched her fall.

Isabela's arms were still outstretched, as if she could catch her.

They watched as she turned once, in the wind, like a wayward flower petal, and was swallowed up by the flames.

How long they stayed there, like that, nobody could say. They were struck dumb in the aftermath. Isabela wiped the blood from under her nose. Luisa stared at the spot in the valley where Mirabel had fallen, as if she thought time could reverse if she stared long enough.

Dolores was the only one who spoke, when words finally came back.

"She let go," she said, over and over. "She let go. Why did she do that?"

Camilo huddled close to his sister, his arms wrapped around his legs, staring at nothing.

What am I going to tell Mama?

What am I going to tell Papa?

Isabela only had one answer to that question.

You'll tell them the truth. You'll tell them you failed her.

..

The men thought that El Verraco had finally lost his mind completely. He insisted they put out the plantation fire and stay where they were, and have the forest searched once it was safe to go inside. Exactly what he thought he could do with the charred corpse of his child bride was anyone's guess.

They had lost much of their stored food and equipment in the fire, and many of the rooms were ruined including his own. The men muttered among themselves, the beginnings of mutiny. Truthfully many of them had felt unhappy about El Verraco keeping the girl captive, some had daughters of their own not much younger. In the old days he would have seen an attack like this coming from a mile away, but the old fool was driven mad by lust and legacy.

Vargas tried to drink his guilt away. He couldn't understand why Mirabel had chosen to let herself drop into the fire rather than live as El Verraco's wife. Sure, the old man was a monster, but she would have had her children to keep her happy, and he would have died in a few years anyway and then she could have had whatever life she wanted.

What a waste.

He had seen a glimpse of something new in El Verraco after she dropped. A strange thing, a look in his remaining eye, as if he'd seen a ghost. Perhaps it had finally hit home what a monster he had let himself become, when a girl had chosen death over being in his bed. He looked smaller, somehow, cowed.

…..

They walked home in angry, tearful silence. Luisa had wanted to stay behind, to see if they could at least bring Mirabel's body home for a proper burial, but she was coldly reminded that the fire was so hot there would have been nothing to find. It was still smouldering when they left for home.

Their parents were furious when they arrived at Casíta's door, they had been worried sick of course, but their anger faded as the whole sorry story came out, little by little, punctuated by broken sobs. Everyone shed tears then.

Except for Julieta.

On hearing how her daughter plummeted headfirst into a raging wildfire, Julieta rose from the table and went to her room. Not even Augustin was allowed in to see her.

"I'm sorry," Isabela sobbed outside the door. "I tried to save her Mama, I really tried!"

Before, the grief had been tense, fraught with the hope that Mirabel would come back. Now it was replaced by a softer grief, no less miserable but more simple. They shared stories about Mirabel that made them chuckle, the snowdrifts around Casíta dwindled to a gentle summer rain, nobody slept alone but cuddled two or three to a bed for comfort.

Alma, as was to be expected, took the lead when it came to planning a memorial service. She brought in the villagers to take care of the food, for Julieta had stopped doing anything since she heard of her daughter's passing. The Gúzmans offered their support, arranging the decorations, sending the word out.

With no body, it would be an unusual wake, so they gathered many things that Mirabel had made over the years to host instead of the body. Alma was taken aback when many of the villagers brought blankets, shawls, children's toys, until the memorial table was piled with these tokens.

"She made this for me when I learned to read," a little girl said proudly as she donated a small stuffed eagle.

"She helped me fix my shawl just before my wedding," a young woman explained, adding an intricately embroidered wedding garment to the table. "I couldn't have gotten married without it."

"She made this for my mother," the blacksmith said, unfurling a fine wool blanket. "It's the only thing that keeps her feet warm in winter, so she says."

It was both heartening and deeply tragic that the village loved Mirabel so much. The Madrigals would not mourn alone.

Later, when the memorial was over and everyone drifted off to bed, Alma found Julieta in the kitchen by herself, clutching a cup of coffee that she wasn't drinking.

"It was a beautiful service," she said to her daughter. "Mirabel will stay strong in all of our hearts."

Julieta had been stone-faced throughout the whole ceremony, no tears, no smiles, just blank. She barely said a word when the villagers offered their condolences.

"Do you remember what you said when she came back?" she asked Alma, quietly.

"I don't understand what you..."

"Yes, you do. When she came back to us."

"...I don't remember."

"You said, someday whatever it was that took her away would come back for her."

"That was different, Julieta," Alma sighed. "Please, it's late...you need to get some sleep, amore."

"You were right," Julieta continued, as if Alma hadn't spoken at all. "How does it feel to be so right?"

Her voice broke on the last word and she sobbed wretchedly into her coffee cup. Alma tried and failed to console her until sunrise, when her husband took her to bed.

…..

Burning was supposed to hurt, wasn't it?

And crashing headfirst into the ground was supposed to be unpleasant, at the very least.

But Mirabel's head, from what she could tell, was mostly intact. And her skin was slightly damp and decidedly not on fire. She struggled to open her eyes, expecting to see nothing but burning trees.

There were no trees in her immediate eyeline. Her body was numb, wet, a little cold but not in an unpleasant way. All she could see was an inky black expanse, a few floating orbs that glowed faintly in the darkness.

Ah, I'm in heaven. Or hell is much nicer than I expected.

Curiously though, her leg was hurting much more now than when she got shot. Were you supposed to feel pain in heaven? Or hell? Surely a dead person didn't feel pain?

She tried moving her arms, and realized that wet feeling was because she was floating in lukewarm water. Curious, she always sank like a stone whenever she tried to swim before. Just in her eyeline she could see the layers of her wedding dress float and bob in the water like a jellyfish.

Hang on...

She raised her hand out of the water to hover above her face. Amazingly, she could see the little whorls and lines on her fingertips. She hadn't been able to see them without her glasses for as long as she could remember.

Leaning forward to tread water, her feet brushed the floor. She stood on her uninjured leg and took in everything around her. The water she was in was a great lake, covered with tiny islands, each glowing multicoloured hues in the dark. And as she looked more closely at the one nearest to her, she could see that the surface of these islands, all the trees that stretched up to disappear into the dark, all the flowering bushes and sparkling rocks, were covered with butterflies and moths.

There was that familiar whisper, except now it wasn't so much the sound of rustling paper but recognizable voices, thousands of them. She could even make out a few words.

...missed you...

...don't...

...we are glad...

...she will be...

.honoured...

One of the moths, a pale green creature with dark eye spots on its wings, gently landed on her finger. As she watched, the insect carapace shifted, folded, melted into itself, and a tiny naked humanlike figure stood with its tiny arms outstretched, showing off its new body for her.

And yet, with all this strangeness going on, her mind kept going back to that one discovery.

I can see down here.