Chapter Text
Since the day of the Schism, the town of Sinsuerte had seen a great uptick in visitors. The first had been government men, keen to see what lay beyond the formerly untouchable mountain range. Whatever power had kept outsiders away had to aid their cause; they would make sure of it. None had returned, and many in the town said good riddance–government men always complained and looked down their noses at the villagers and brought trouble.
Next were the university people, unprepared for the jungle but excited nonetheless. It wasn't every day that a surprise earthquake split a mountain, much less one whose very existence was a point of contention for many in their number. Sinsuerte did their due diligence in warning them of the dangers, and the scholars nodded and pretended to take them seriously before dismissing it as local folk tales. Old Miguel said they were already crafting publications for their findings and seeing their names in the history books. Of the twenty who left on the expedition, three returned, babbling about surprise avalanches and lightning storms on sunny days and plants that came alive. They went back to their ivory towers as soon as possible. The villagers could only shrug and think smugly, "We told you so."
Next were the journalists. These were the most varied, in personality and appearance, yet all shared the singular trait of nosiness. To half the town, they were nuisances, always interrupting work to ask things they had no business knowing. To the other half, they were a breath of fresh air and a captive audience with whom to share the town’s history in excruciating detail. All of them spoke to Manuel Rodriguez, the only member of town to have seen the valley and lived to tell. After his tales, only the few boldest dared to go see firsthand the place he described. Interviews would suffice for the readers, they claimed, and the people of Sinsuerte seemed trustworthy. Behind their backs, the villagers exchanged knowing looks; these city people saw the bramble wall past the river and the storm clouds over the mountains and turned tail.
Between these groups, word must have spread, because just a few weeks later, tourists began arriving. Thrillseekers, folklore enthusiasts, and the curious all wanted to learn more about El Valle Maldito. It was a big change for a town that had barely seen a new face a year, but newcomers brought money, and no one could complain about that. Sometimes, it was almost as busy as the town's heyday, back when it was called San Cisco.
Back before the Rumbles.
So when a group of four strangers wandered into town, few paid them more than a cursory glance. When they started asking about the valley, the villagers pointed them to the tavern, to see Manuel. Those who did look closer noted what a motley crew the strangers were. A frail-looking older man in a green ruana that swamped his thin frame, hood obscuring his face, seemed to be the leader. He was constantly keeping the youngest close to him, a girl of no more than sixteen in a ruana of deep blue with many-colored tassels along the edges and a matching skirt. Green rimmed glasses poked out from under her own hood. The other two, a young man and woman, were clearly lovers, judging by the way the woman grasped the man's offered arm. Her skin was the darkest out of all of them–what little could be seen of it. She was tall and thin and wore a red skirt and matching fringed shawl that was drawn over her head. Unlike the other girl, she had a veil covering the lower half of her face so that only her large, hazel eyes were visible. The man at her side was the only one of the group with his head uncovered. He was every inch a hero that a romantic poet would write about, tall and broad with long hair and a trim beard. He split his time between scanning everything as if he'd never seen a town before and murmuring to the woman on his arm.
They were strange, even by Sinsuerte standards, but things were changing, so the villagers who noticed them simply resolved to keep an eye on them.
Perhaps if they had said something, this disaster could have been avoided.
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“Ey, Manuel!” Fernando, the barman, called.
Manuel looked up from his bottle. He was, as per his agreement with Fernando, stationed in the far right corner of the room, at a small circular table. “ Sí ?”
Fernando nodded to a pair near the bar. “Got some people here to see you. Asking about–” he lowered his voice, “El Valle Maldito.”
Manuel remained unmoved outwardly, but inside perked up. Ah, another audience! He tipped his sombrero vueltiao and beckoned for the two to join him.
The older of the two, a man in a green ruana with his hood shadowing his face, pulled his companion over–a young girl in a deep blue ruana with a matching skirt covered with embroidery, hood also up. She didn’t even look old enough to drink, if Manuel had to hazard a guess; if that was the case, he understood the hoods. No one would want to advertise that they brought a child to the bar. La Esperanza Secreta may only be half full, but it was the only place in town to get a meal and drink, so who knew how long they would have a modicum of privacy?
Now that they were closer–the man practically shoved the girl into a chair before taking his own, his hand hovering by her arm–Manuel felt a prickle of recognition, just out of reach. He squinted at them. “Have we met before?”
The man stiffened a bit, then studied him curiously. “Uh, n-no, I don’t think we have, we just got to town, you couldn’t have?” He knocked several times on the table before rapping his head. The girl shot her father–Manuel assumed it was her father–a wide-eyed look.
The man’s voice did nothing to ease Manuel’s suspicion, but did not raise them further, so he shrugged it off. Time for the show. He and Fernando had spent hours painstakingly coming up with this script, and he knew it by heart. He took a swig of his beer and addressed the man. “So, you want to know about the Cursed Valley?” The man nodded. “Then you are in luck, Señor y Señorita. I am Manuel Rodriguez, and I am the only one left who has seen it and lived to tell.” As he was talking, he pulled out and lit a cigarette, taking a quick drag. “I warn you, it is not a tale for young ears,” he waved his new prop in the girl’s direction. She huffed and made a face. He continued, “--but if you are sure, I need to know where to start. How much do you know of El Valle?”
The two startled at his question, looking at each other nervously. Odd. It was the girl who spoke first. “Um, we–well, we-we know it’s there. And…it’s got…magic, I think? But that’s it.” She had an uncertain smile on her face, eyes darting between her father and Manuel.
Like with the man, the girl’s voice sounded familiar, but again Manuel could not place it. The uneasy feeling in his stomach grew minutely, but he pushed it back down with a chuckle. “You are correct on both, but I think you came here for something more specific, sí?” Another quick drag, exhale a plume of smoke. A smoky atmosphere sets the tone. “Why don’t I start at the beginning?” He signaled to Fernando to bring some drinks to the guests. “It’s a long tale, so buckle up, muchachos."
“El Valle Maldito has been around for a long time. Some say it has always been there, and only came to be seen by mortals at the turn of the century, but that’s bullshit.” He glanced at the girl to gauge her reaction to his language. Nothing. Hm, could be a good sign. “The Valley did not exist until the days of the Troubles, a little over fifty years ago. There was a town twelve miles from here, called Luz de Bartolomé, that was burnt to the ground, with many inhabitants fleeing in the night. Some hid in the jungle and after some time settled here,” he waved his arm in a sweeping motion, “but some tried to cross the river. The bandits tracked them down, chased them across. The refugees fled–all but one man: Pedro Madrigal.”
At Pedro’s name, the two strangers had a strange reaction. Both froze, the man nearly jumping, eyes widening for a split second and glancing furiously at each other. As soon as Manuel noticed their expressions, they were gone, replaced by tension on the man’s face and suspicion on the girl’s. “How do you know all of this?” she demanded.
Fernando failed to hold back a snort as he dropped off a beer in front of each of the guests. Manuel shot him a glare and scoffed, leaning back in his chair. He gestured to himself. “I’ve been there, recuerdes? I learned these things firsthand. Don’t interrupt your elders, ella.”
The girl bristled at his words, but her father elbowed her ribs, so she simply crossed her arms and huffed again. “Lo siento, Señor Manuel.”
Manuel hmphed and took a long swig of his beer, feeling petty satisfaction when the girl’s eye twitched. “Now, Pedro could not hope to take down any of his attackers.” His voice dropped lower, and his expression became somber. Play up emotional parts. “He was cut down in the middle of the river, trying to buy time for his wife and unborn child to escape. She saw the whole thing. She cried out in her grief, and someone up there,” he pointed to the ceiling, “answered her. The mountains grew up around the refugees, cutting them off from the outside world, and sealing them in.
“Time passed. This village formed shortly after, called San Cisco. The people mourned those lost to the river, but life waits for no one, so the lost ones were pushed to the side in favor of preserving those left. For five years there was peace.” He paused to take a long drag off his cigarette. “Then came the first of the Rumbles.”
The man, who had been studying the tabletop since Pedro was brought up, looked up quizzically. “Rumbles?”
“That’s what we call a strange event from the Valley that hits the town. The very first of them was just an earthquake, a rumble, that didn’t leave any marks except a few plates knocked off of shelves and the like. The very next day, people saw it. I wasn’t even born yet, but my Pá told me stories. A clear, sunny day was stretched for miles around, except for a roiling, pitch-black mass of anger thundering above the valley.”
The man looked back down at the table nervously at this, and the girl pressed her lips together, but both still seemed to be hanging onto his every word. Inwardly, Manuel preened.
“A few went to investigate, but couldn’t get past the river. There was a fog so thick surrounding the mountains that if you walked into it, you couldn’t even tell if you were on Earth anymore.” Manuel shrugged. “In the end, everyone just decided to ignore the place. We had no business dealings over there, another river nearby, and no desire to be cursed.” He drained the dregs of his bottle. “Over time, others tried to scale the mountains. Those that made it back told wild stories: lightning striking out of the blue, swirling clouds of sand with green lights, and other terrifying sights. A few merchants made it in but were tight-lipped bastards. All of it was fantastical. Couldn’t be real, we said. Thirty more years passed until the next Rumble came.” Manuel stopped to sigh a bit and look down at the table for a moment. Even if you were never there, pretend you are remembering; it lends you credibility . “I was there for that one, just barely a man. We all woke up one morning to find every path covered in flowering plants.”
The pair of strangers both looked up sharply at this. The man sunk lower in his seat, while the girl appeared to be counting back years in her head. Manuel paid them no mind; he was beginning to get into the drama of the story now. "Flor de mayo poked between cracks in the cobblestones and walls, lilacs lined the sides of houses, sundew and marigolds hung from vines across town. We investigated as much as we could; the closer one got to El Valle, the thicker and more colorful the vegetation became, until it formed a nigh-impassable barrier just before the river. By the next day, it was all gone.
"No one knew what it meant, let alone what to do. Padre Ricardo spent all day walking the streets with a burning censor and all night praying and fasting. The merchants were just as silent as before."
He gestured wildly as he continued. "Then, just a few weeks later, as most of us were settling down after dinner, a cacophony of noises broke the night. It sounded like thunder, like a hundred whispered discussions right in your ear, like standing beside a waterfall--all of these and more, all at once. It continued through the night and into the morning, when it finally faded away, leaving everyone with ringing ears and more questions."
The man started fidgeting, tapping his foot rapidly and wringing his hands under his ruana. His daughter rubbed a hand along his arm soothingly. Man, if they were scared by this point, they would be blubbering messes by the end, Manuel thought, smothering a smug grin. Dimly, he noted that neither had touched their drinks. He wordlessly asked the man for his bottle. The man pushed it across the table. Manuel grinned his thanks and sipped it noisily before continuing.
"That's when we changed the town's name to Sinsuerte–it fit better–and the Padre had us put up the wall around the town. He said he'd had a vision–" the man started at that word, odd, "--from God, that he finally knew our purpose as a town. The valley was cursed, and we were to stem the tide of Devil's magic coming from it, for the good of the country." Manuel waved his cigarette in a mocking salute and snorted. "He started a regular cleansing ritual to keep the Rumbles from happening again."
"Did it work?" The girl looked like she already knew the answer but was hoping she was wrong.
"Hell no, that was just the beginning. Two years later, stones around town shattered out of the blue, as if someone struck them. Landmarks and houses were moved as if plucked whole from the ground, and deposited haphazardly about the town. We cleared the paths, repaired the damage, and chased out any who claimed to have been to the valley." He laughed mirthlessly. "Maybe we angered whatever powers-that-be when we did, because the Rumble four years was the worst yet: everyone awoke in a different body than when they went to sleep."
Even nearly eleven years later, Manuel shuddered when he remembered that day. He had taken on the form of the town bum, a sixty-something man who died six years ago and who's name he had forgotten. Bad enough to no longer be in his own body; it was worse to wake up in the middle of the jungle forty years older with a terrible hangover and a bird pecking at his arm. "It was loco. Children woke up as their parents; neighbors tried to learn their way around each other's kitchens; workmen tried to continue their labors with the wizened hands of their elders. By evening, everyone was back in their own bodies, but the damage was done. Over the next several months, more and more people left for more peaceful places, until Sinsuerte was a ghost of its former self, just a few houses still inhabited around the square and church." He waved his hand in the general direction of the square outside the door. "Because of that, few saw the last one, the day before the Schism. The sky went black all around, but not from the weather." He leaned forward and hunched over, as if telling a secret. His audience mimicked him. "No, it was birds. Crows, toucans, and some species we'd thought long gone from this plane, pulled as if by an outside force to the Valley. Nothing could stop them. Not walls, not trees. The dogs ate well that night."
With each story, the pair in front of him grew minutely more distressed. The man was tapping his knuckles against the table in a steady staccato, and the girl had gone unnaturally still, eyes wide behind her glasses. Again, Manuel felt the pull of recognition, and he paused to squint at her. She gulped at the sudden attention. Her father noticed her discomfort and prompted, "Why did you stay, Señor?"
Manuel gave a gruff laugh and raised his hat to rake his hand through his hair. "I tried to leave. Explored a good chunk of the surrounding jungle and stayed in a city for a while, but…" He paused and drummed his fingers on the table for a second, as if trying to form a solid answer. He already had one; this was not the first time he'd been asked such a thing, but it was all part of the show. "But nothing stuck. I'm a part of this town. Was born here, raised here. Might even die here. You don't just abandon something that's so much a part of who you are."
The pair appeared very sympathetic to this sentiment. Probably from a small town themselves. With another draught of beer and quick drag, Manuel continued his tale, leaning back in his chair. "Anyway. I had just come home from being a tour guide by the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta–cold and demanding, but it pays well, I'll tell you about it if you stick around–when the Schism happened. Everyone was freaking out, barricading themselves into their homes with whatever weapons they could find. Padre Ricardo gathered a few men and stood on the wall with his Bible and crucifix in hand, ready to see what hell would come now that the mountain was cracked. Me? I was excited as all hell. I packed a bag, grabbed my gun, and headed into the valley. This was the chance to find out, once and for all, what made the valley, El Valle Maldito. As a little boy, I dreamed I would conquer it and return a hero, and I never gave up on that dream."
The girl inhaled sharply. "Are you loco?" she hissed.
"Manners, M–ah, Val," her father hissed back.
"What? I can't say he's crazy when he acts crazy?"
Inwardly, Manuel chortled at the girl. A brash little spitfire, this one. If he were younger or she were older–ah, better not go that route, buddy. "No, she's right. Maybe I was crazy to go there." He adopted a somber expression and leaned his elbows heavily on the table. " It took me nearly two weeks, but I found a path into the valley. I spent days watching, listening, learning about the valley. The things I saw…" He shook his head, then, as if he had a thought, he suddenly froze. "In fact…" He pulled his chair closer to the table. Again, the pair copied his movements. "I can show you some of what I saw." He made a show of reaching into his breast pocket and pulling out a folded photograph before hesitating–again, part of his act. He had brought a camera to document whatever he found in the valley, but little of the film was salvageable from his flight back across the river.
"Well?" The girl–Val–muttered impatiently. Her father didn't bother to correct her, already on the edge of his seat.
This was the part of the story that Manuel relished in telling. He heaved a sigh that was only a touch too theatrical. "Remember, you asked." He unfolded the photo carefully and placed it in front of them, with his palm still covering the image. "At the center of the valley is the town, and at the center of the town–" he removed his hand with a flourish, "are the Madrigals."
The picture showed a wall painted with a unique mural; it looked almost like a family tree, but inverted, so that it resembled more of a pyramid. Across the top, someone had written Teme a la Familia Madrigal.
No one outside of town knew quite what to do with this prop, so Manuel had come to expect only curiosity or confusion at the picture. What he got from this pair was neither. Val stared at it, muted shock growing in her expression the longer she did. The man, on the other hand, barely glanced over it before swearing and discreetly throwing something white over his shoulder–salt? It was strange enough for Manuel to break character. “Everything all right?” He asked.
That seemed to snap them out of whatever spell they were under. “Ah, yes, w-we’re fine, fine, just, uh, weren’t expecting that, don’t know what we expected, it’s not…” The man trailed off until it seemed he was talking to himself.
Val nodded furiously. “Yeah, we didn’t know–I mean, obviously, we didn’t know a lot about the enca– El Valle! Tell us what you know. About this picture. Please. Right now.”
His unease was getting harder to ignore, but did not yet have a solid reason to exist, so Manuel did as the girl asked. He pointed to the figure at the top, an old woman in a richly-colored dress with a thick candle in her hands. The image showed her head tipping forward as if glaring down at whoever passed by. “The head of the Madrigal family and of the entire Valle is Alma Madrigal. Her husband’s sacrifice is what spawned the magical valley in the first place, so she is the Keeper of the Magic. She rules over the Valley with cold, proud eyes and an iron fist, and who can blame her? No one would expect less from a woman who bore three gods into the world.”
“Gods?” Val said disbelievingly, turning briefly to face her father. He seemed intent on avoiding her gaze.
“Yes, gods, and triplets, no less.” Manuel made a vague gesture of understanding. “Now, were you to meet any of the Madrigals on the street, they would seem quite human, even normal. They have two arms and legs, human faces, need to eat and drink and breathe and sleep to function just like any other person. But what could they be, if not gods?”
Val’s gaze never left her father. She was biting her lip, but her eyes danced with mirth. Manuel took that as a sign that she did not believe him. He growled. “You think I’m exaggerating?” Her face snapped to him, laughter no longer visible, and shook her head, but Manuel waved her off. “Well, we’ll see if you think that by the end. Remember, I saw it, and you didn’t.” He stabbed his finger on the second tier of the pyramid, to the second figure on the right. “Julieta, the eldest.” The woman on the mural seemed to be staring straight at the viewer with calculating eyes. Her silver streaked hair was pulled back in a bun. One hand rested on a set of bloody kitchen knives in a special sash at her hips as she lifted a basket of baked goods with the other. “The granter of miracles. Broken bones, limbs torn off, infection, disease--all fall powerless beneath her hands. Last year, when the plague raced through the countryside? Those in the Valley heard nothing of it. To them, it was a run-of-the-mill sickness, with a run-of-the-mill duration--half a day. Julieta Madrigal decides who lives a normal life, and who dies a slow, agonizing death.”
He switched to the other woman on that tier, one with thick, curly hair braided down her back. One finger rested lightly on her chin, as if in thought; judging by her predatory grin and the lightning behind her, her thoughts were not kind. “Pepa, the middle child. The wrath-bringer. A woman crowned with lightning and cloaked in storm clouds. A woman who can summon floods from thin air and call the sun out from behind a hurricane--whose unpredictable temper precedes her, her thunder causing grown men to cower and beg. What is Pepa Madrigal, who bends nature itself, if not divine?”
He pointed to the middle figure, a smirking man with long, bouncy curls, glowing emerald eyes and chin jutting out as if to look down his nose at the viewer. His palms were open and facing one another with an hourglass hovering between them. “Bruno, the youngest. The prophet. No matter your talent, no matter your strengths, no matter the information at your fingertips, one word from Bruno seals your fate. He brings neither healing miracles nor perfect weather. He brings death, ruination, the crumbling return to nothingness that all humanity must face. The sands of time tell their secrets to none but Bruno Madrigal.”
Throughout the first two descriptions, the man across from him had kept a blank look in his eyes, expression carefully neutral. At the last one, though, he appeared to slump and curl in on himself, muttering. Val resumed stroking his arm comfortingly, glancing at Manuel with an unreadable expression. “What about the two on the outside?”
The man’s reaction unnerved Manuel a bit, and he had to take a long sip of beer to settle himself. “Well, being divine did not prevent the Madrigal Triplets from having–ah, shall we say, base human urges.”
This brought the man back into the story. “Base urges, huh?” His tone was sardonic, and his expression showed a mix of laughter and exasperation.
Manuel barked a laugh of his own. A man like any other, I see, eh, amigo? One mention of sex and here you are. “Hey, you’re the one who brought polite company.” He waved at Val. The girl scowled and rolled her eyes but said nothing. It broke some of the tension that had formed in Manuel's chest, and he felt more at ease as he continued. “Yes, the Madrigal women wanted husbands. Maybe they were inspired by the tale of love between their mother and father, maybe divine power gives you that urge to keep you humble, who knows?
“Pepa was the first to find a husband.” He indicated the dark-skinned man who had one arm around Pepa’s portrait, his other sweeping wide as if to say, ‘Look at this family, behold our power.’ His expression matched his wife’s, but more prideful. “Pepa found a wandering spirit in the mountains, with skin like coffee and eyes dark as coal. A mohán far from home, some claimed; I don’t think so, but that’s not important. He saw the goddess’ power and fell in love. Theirs was a passionate and volatile romance, for this spirit–this Félix–was not the only one seeking to woo the middle Madrigal. Tired of weak lovers, Pepa had issued a challenge: any who could battle through and stand beside her in one of her great hurricanes would be her husband. Félix was the only one who was able to do it, and won her love that day when he whispered in awe of power, rather than fear. He set the forest ablaze to see the flames light up her eyes as they danced, and they were married that day in the middle of the hurricane.”
The man suddenly snorted a laugh, looking instantly remorseful as his daughter elbowed him. Manuel glared. “If you think I’m full of shit, there’s the door. No one else has lived after finding out as much as I have, though, so you’ll never learn the truth about the Valley.” He raised an eyebrow in challenge. Neither member of his audience moved, so he continued, pointing at the man on the other side of the photograph. He was the strangest looking, by far. Stitches ran down the center and across the right side of his face, as if he were a quilt sewn together from differing fabrics. Even his eyes were different colors behind black-rimmed glasses. His clothing, in contrast, was an immaculate pin-striped suit. He gazed softly at Julieta, offering her a rose. “Not to be outdone, the elder sister soon claimed a partner as well. Like Pepa, many in the town sought a union with the healer, but Julieta had turned them all down. Who, then, was her betrothed? Slowly, the story came out: over the years, Julieta had been working with the man in charge of the morgue and the old town doctor, to test the limits of her gift. She sought to find the secret to life. Years of trial and error led to her creating the first and only patchwork man–Agustín Gomez. In playing God, Julieta did not mean to make a perfect match for herself, but that is what she did. To stay in one piece–for his very survival–Agustín needed the healing power of Julieta, and in return, he was utterly devoted to her, never letting a day go by where he did not ensure his mistress felt appreciated.”
The man and his daughter both stayed silent and wide-eyed, with the girl pressing her lips into a thin line. That’s more like it, Manuel thought. “Bruno, as far as I could tell, has neither a wife nor a lover, nor any children.” He shrugged. “Not sure about that one. Maybe he doesn’t like women, maybe he’s just keeping his options open.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Val deadpanned.
“ Cállate ,” the man half-whispered, half-hissed; to Manuel he said politely, “Please go on, Señor .”
Manuel chuckled despite himself. Fernando dropped off a pitcher and three glasses before disappearing behind the bar again. Manuel called out his thanks. “Gracias, amigo. Now, with two new marriages in the family–passionate ones at that–it wasn’t long before the next generation of Madrigals were born, and the town found out that the magical gifts would continue, for better or worse.”
This time, he started with the left-most person, a small boy who looked to be almost an exact replica of Félix. A snake was wrapped around him like a scarf, and a jaguar peered over his shoulder. The boy was pointing straight at the viewer with a manic grin. “Antonio, the youngest grandchild, and at nearly six years old, already claiming his portion as a Madrigal. His madre controls the skies; he controls the animal kingdom. Everything answers his call, from the jaguar who carries him everywhere to the rats who make their nests in the village houses. The birds are his spies; they keep watch so that none can enter the Valley–and none can leave it. The creatures of the Valley view Antonio Madrigal as their king, and woe betide any who threatens their king.”
The next figure was a boy in his late teens with springy coils of hair and lighter skin, peering over one arm as if about to flourish it. He wore a ruana with strange designs, and an expression that could be considered mischievous if not for the sinister glint in his eye. “Camilo, Pepa’s second born. A son of his mother’s thunder and his father’s mischief. He can take on the appearance of any person he sees, tweaking it to his liking or becoming an exact replica. Children will follow their mother or father, only to find themselves lost, listening to the boy’s laugh as they cry in fear. You could wake up one day to an angry mob at your door, claiming you did a crime you didn’t do, and behind them will be Camilo, smiling smugly at you. Because of Camilo Madrigal, those in El Valle Maldito can never truly trust their eyes.”
Val opened and closed her mouth like a fish; Manuel barely noticed. He pointed to the next person on the mural, a tall, thin young woman whose springy hair was pulled into a bun on top of her head. She was turned slightly away from the viewer, but looking out through the side of her eyes, a half-smile on her lips. One hand cupped her ear while the other rested on her hip. “Dolores, Pepa’s firstborn. A woman rarely seen and never heard outside of her family. No spoken word is secret from her; you could whisper to her from the other side of the valley, from the other side of the mountains, and she would hear you. She deals in information the way the cartels deal in money and drugs: as the one holding all the cards and knows it. Utter a single word against her family, and Dolores Madrigal will see the slight returned tenfold."
He paused a moment to gauge how his audience was doing. Val kept glancing furtively at the door–no, at one of the large windows on that wall. He looked. Nothing of note; just a dirty table and a view of the emptying street.
“What did you learn of the rest?” The man asked in a small but urgent voice.
Manuel squinted at them in suspicion, but turned back to the photograph. The next Madrigal scared him the most, if he was honest; not only because of her magic, but because he nearly fell for her trap himself. He pointed to a shapely woman with her eyes half-closed, head tilted in a coquette-ish fashion. One arm was slung across her chest, propping up her other arm so her chin could rest on her hand. A dagger dangled from her fingers. A belt of small glass vials hung at her middle. Plants bloomed all around the background of her portrait.
“This one is Isabela, the firstborn grandchild of the magic and the crowning jewel of the Madrigal family. Flowers bloom beneath her bare feet as she walks her domain; trees spring fully formed from the ground when she waves her hand; vines fawn and carry her at her whims. The woman herself is a wild rose–the most elegant, delicate, and beautiful woman in the valley. And that is her trap, for she is not a rose, but a sundew, and men are her prey. The carnivorous plants in her garden are always well fed, and more than one suitor has keeled over after a date, from her new favorite poison. To Isabela Madrigal, the untameable wilds of Colombia are a weapon and a toy to play with.”
Again, he paused, remembering his encounter with the plant witch. Unconsciously, Manuel’s face had put his true feelings toward Isabela on display–infatuation with a hint of fear and awe.
He came back to the present with a shake of his head. “A good lesson to learn early, chiquita? The pretty ones aren’t always good people.” He forced a laugh. The girl followed suit, though it, too, sounded strained. “Anyway, even if a man does live to see a second date with Isabela, he then has to contend with this one.” He tapped the next figure, a woman with a wide frame that towered over the others. One fist was pulled back in a ready position, showing off a bicep that was as big as her sister’s head. Her eyes were narrowed at the viewer and she wore a wicked, toothless grin. “Luisa. The hammer of the gods. A veritable mountain of a woman. Beneath her fists, boulders turn to dust, steel crumbles like paper, and streets crack. Buildings are lifted whole from the earth and trees are torn to splinters. Above all, she guards her family zealously; heaven help the poor fool who stands in their way. Luisa Madrigal can move mountains; removing you would be like squashing a bug.”
Manuel’s throat was getting pretty dry. He stopped to finish his beer and pour himself a glass of water. “That leaves only one,” he said as he finished, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. It may just have been the booze talking, but Val looked mildly panicked now. She was gripping the tabletop so hard that her knuckles were white. He batted down a satisfied feeling; he knew he was a good storyteller, but he liked to be reminded of it now and again. He jabbed at the last figure, a girl with short, curly hair framing her face and round glasses. She fully faced the viewer, arms akimbo, eyes glaring down like her grandmother at the top, but with a smirk instead of a frown. “Mirabel, Julieta’s last child. Do not let her fool you as she fooled the rest of the village there. She has no Gift, but has magic in her brain and her tongue, and she knows how to use both. A few honey-edged words, and a shopkeeper trips over himself to show her the best deals, practically giving his wares away. Some carefully chosen testimony from her can spell a death sentence at a trial, because what reason would she have to lie? Children follow her, singing and dancing, like mice after the Pied Piper. Mirabel Madrigal is just like the rest of her family–a wolf in sheep’s clothing, yet no one suspects her, because without magic, how much of a threat can she be?
“So you see, amigos,” Manuel extinguished his cigarette butt in the table’s ashtray and leaned back in his chair, “the danger of the valley? It’s in the people who live there. El Valle Maldito is just their kingdom, but they guard it like the Garden of Eden. Take my word. Learn from my experience, and don’t go there.”
For a few seconds, neither Val nor her father said anything. Manuel was used to this–his story was a lot to absorb.
“ Estás mintiendo.”
Manuel was used to that, too. He crossed his arms and eyed the man coolly.
“It-it makes no–there is no way you could have learned all of that by just observing–” The man stopped mid-sentence. “Oh, no.”
“ Tío?” Val turned the man’s face to get a better look at him. Her expression froze in alarm. “Oh no,” she echoed. Quickly, she hauled him to his feet and started dragging him away. “Uh, thanks so much for the story, Señor Manuel, but we have to go, have a nice night–”
What? He had more tales to tell, he'd barely started. “What is wrong? Señorita, wait–” Manuel rose from his chair and reached out a hand to grab the girl, but she was too quick. All he managed to grab was her hood.
“No!” The man cried, but it was too late. Her hood was down, and suddenly Manuel couldn’t breathe.
A round face framed by deep brown curls. Green glasses in front of chocolate eyes. The recognition prickling at the back of his mind finally cleared as the pieces clicked into place–
“THEY’RE HERE!” Manuel found himself shouting, desperately stumbling back. Everyone in the bar looked in their direction. “MADRIGALS!” He fell over his chair as he pointed at the pair.
Several things happened at once. Fernando ducked behind the bar, going for the machete Manuel knew he kept there. Several other patrons fumbled to draw their own weapons, some even turning over tables to hide behind. The window that the girl– Mirabel Mirabel oh God the Madrigals were here–had kept glancing at smashed in, an enormous fist on the other side. The man threw his own hood back and stood tall. “Clear the way!” He commanded in a voice very unlike the soft, stuttering one he had used when disguised. His eyes were glowing a fierce emerald green. Bruno. Without waiting, he grabbed Mirabel and jumped through the window, where everyone heard the scrambling of running feet.
All the while, Manuel stayed on the ground, yelling to high heaven.
“THE MADRIGALS! THEY’RE HERE! THEY’RE HEEEEERE!”