Ripples, by Beatriz Brenes Mora
She sees herself reflected in the turquoise waters of the Sibinacocha Lake. Her shape is changing, her body deforming to accommodate the monster in her womb. The night sky closes in, and a faint glimmer of light pushes through the thick clouds in the form of the moon.
A wave of wind approaches, and the treetops rustle in unison to form a crescendo that is deafening. Remigia closes her eyes and braces herself, half expecting to be punched by it.
“Qhaaaaaaar… qhaaaaaaa… chaaaaaa,” the wind whispers.
Remi knows there’s no escaping now.
She’s been coming to this lake for nine months now, but her courage failed her every time. Knowing what needs to be done and getting it done feel like opposite forces sometimes.
"Qhaaaaar… qhaaaa… chaaaa!” The wind insists.
Her womb jolts. Remi’s heart accelerates, giving way to chaos and fear as the monster’s hooves push her hip bones apart. She lets out a howl. She’s felt that pain before.
That night was a fog-infested night, too. The brume meandering in town made for hazy curtains that hid those up to no good. Her father burst into her room and into her body with the furious savagery of a man who’d been denied. His breath reeked of moonshine. Remi believed with all her heart he had to have been possessed because he left as fast as he came, leaving her shaking, bruised, blood running through her legs.
She went to church the next day and sat on a stool for hours, eying the confession booth but not daring to enter. The stained-glass images of Jesus Christ’s milestones were vivid and far less intimidating than the old Jesuit priest who kept smiling every time their eyes met. She started “Our father” several times but kept forgetting the words, so she counted the images, the flowers, the wood boards, the nails, the benches, the window panes, the Bible books, the pillars, and the tiles. The sun was setting down when she ran out of things to count.
Remi walked out of the church, ignoring the blessing the Father gave her as he closed the church's doors. A black snake scurried at the bottom of the steps. Snakes are an omen of death, no blessing was going to save her.
“Qhaaaaaaar… qhaaaaaaa… chaaaaaa,” back at the lake, Remi listens to the dark beings calling for it, the Qharqhacha, that cursed creature half human, half llama: evidence of incest.
Remi’s feet shake as she enters the lake. She prays to Jesus for forgiveness and to Mama Quilla, the Incan Goddess of the Moon, for courage. Another wave of contractions hits her, she’s running out of time.
A dark ring surrounds her as a metallic smell of blood surfaces.
Her howls ripple in the water, mother and monster fighting to separate––her insides ripping, her fear growing, until a small caramel creature, attached to Remi by a blood-covered giant worm, surfaces.
Remi summons the strength to drown it, but before she makes a move, a Condor dives and grabs the cord. For a second, it seems the minute creature will fly away with the bird. Mother instincts kick in, and Remi grabs the baby midair. It’s a boy, she thinks, it’s just a boy.
The Condor cries and flies in circles around Remi and the child. She stares at the animal, it stares back, Remi is not afraid, she senses the animal means no harm. Condors are the messengers from the Hanan Pacha, the upper world of the Gods, and now she knows it’s no coincidence this one is here.
She walks back to the shore and sits at the foot of a tree. She wraps her baby under her shirt, and the little one clings to her breast without wasting time. The bird sits on one of the taller branches, like a lookout guarding the perimeter.
Remi studies the little creature’s face, his eyes are puffy but peaceful, his nose moving in rapid breathing motions while he nurses, ten miniature fingers and ten even tinier toes, fingernails like rose petals that dig into her index as she tries to hold his hand. She feels his heartbeat against her chest, just a boy, my boy.
“Qhaaaaar… qhaaaa… chaaaa!” this time, the wind roars and the ground trembles. Remi stands up and shouts, “No!” Her voice quiets the foliage with the inhuman power of a mother protecting her cub.
A towering Puma walks out of the dense forest that surrounds the lake, each muscle stretching in slow motion. The Condor flies from the tree top and lands on the Puma’s back, together, they walk past Remi and onto the path that leads back to town.
She thinks the Gods are showing her the way, but her feet are like stones claimed by the mud in the ground.
The black Snake she had seen at the church’s entrance all those months ago slithers between her legs until she moves. It then takes its place next to the Puma. She can’t deny it now, the Heavens, Earth, and Underground are pulling her, an invisible leash forcing her to walk back home to her father.
The town reveals itself like the eyes of a feline that lurks in the jungle. It’s dark and quiet, not a soul in sight. The wind caresses Remi’s hair, and her child’s warm breathing beats along with her heart. The hair on the back of her neck stands. She knows it’s coming, the name, the sound… Her mouth parts, and she hears herself calling—
“Qhaaaaar… qhaaaa… chaaaa,” her lungs depleting with every vowel. The Puma growls, and the Condor flaps its wings, “Qhaaaaar… qhaaaa… chaaaa,” Remigia’s ripped-up body reverberates louder and louder. Her voice takes over every street, every alley, every corner.
She finds herself in front of her house. The Snake sneaks inside the house, and Remi plants her feet, ready to call out the monster.
“Qharqhacha, qharqhacha, qharqhacha!!” Every scream frees her shame. The baby in her arms snores in unison.
A light turns on to her left, and then another. The Puma and the Condor disappear like shadows behind the rippling of the town lighting up.
Remi’s father opens the door of their home, belt in hand, and hushes her.
His voice is coarse, inhuman. The moon lasers on him like a spotlight, his shadow deforming with every step he takes toward Remi. His lips elongate and widen, his nose transforms into a snout, his ears grow like peaks covered in hair, his hands harden like hooves, the belt forever stuck to him.
“Qharqhacha,” The neighbors murmur, watching from their windows, their doors, their walkways.
“Qharqhacha,” they point in disgust and walk out of their homes to get a better look.
“Qharqhacha!” They scream and arm themselves to carry out the ruling of the Old Gods
Remigia lets the barks of the neighbors engulf her like a hug.
Beatriz Brenes Mora is an award-winning actress, film editor and writer from Costa Rica. She's currently pursuing her MFA at Pacific University, and working on a collection of stories and essays about immigration, mother-daughter relationships, and the grooming of patriarchy in Latinx culture and pop culture. Her work has been workshopped at Tin House, the Macondo Writers Workshop, Anaphora Arts, The Lighthouse's Writing in Color Retreat and she was a semi-finalist for the Key West Literary Seminar Emerging Writer Award. She lives in Seattle with Matilda, Levi and Winston (her three dogs).